THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MRS    L.  T.  MEADE. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT 


BY 

..   T.   MEAD 

c       "77      £Z  I  i'->    L  rrr 

AND 

DR.  HALIFAX 

XOD9T  AUTHOBS  OF    "  8TOBIES  FBOM  THE  DIABT  OT  A  DOOIOB** 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


OOPTRISHTED,   1896,  BY 

THE  INTERNATIONAL  NEWS  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


PS 


DR.  RTJMSEY'S  PATIENT. 


CHAPTEB  L 

Two  young  men  in  flannels  were  standing  out- 
aide  the  door  of  the  Red  Doe  in  the  picturesque 
village  of  Grandcourt.  The  village  contained  one 
long  and  straggling  street.  The  village  inn  was 
covered  with  ivy,  wistaria,  flowering  jessamine, 
monthly  roses,  and  many  other  creepers.  The 
flowers  twined  round  old-fashioned  windows,  and 
nodded  to  the  guests  when  they  awoke  in  the  morn 
ing  and  breathed  perfume  upon  them  as  they  re 
tired  to  bed  at  night.  In  short,  the  Inn  was  an 
ideal  one,  and  had  from  time  immemorial  found 
favor  with  reading  parties,  fishermen,  and  others 
who  wanted  to  combine  country  air  and  the  pursuit 
of  health  with  a  certain  form  of  easy  amusement. 
The  two  men  who  now  stood  in  the  porch  were 
undergraduates  from  Balliol.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  least  remarkable  about  their  appearance — 
they  looked  like  what  they  were,  good-hearted, 
keen-witted  young  Englishmen  of  the  day.  The 
time  was  evening,  and  as  the  Inn  faced  due  west 
the  whole  place  was  bathed  in  warm  sunshine. 


2138215 


6  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"This  heat  is  tremendous  and  there  is  no  air,** 
said  Everett,  the  younger  of  the  students.  "How 
can  you  stand  that  sun  beating  on  your  head, 
Frere?  I'm  for  indoors." 

"Bight,"  replied  Frere.  a It  is  cool  enough  in 
the  parlor." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  a  step  forward  and  gazed 
down  the  winding  village  street.  There  was  a  look 
of  pleased  expectation  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to 
be  watching  for  some  one.  A  girl  appeared,  walk 
ing  slowly  up  the  street.  Frere's  eye  began  to 
dance.  Everett,  who  was  about  to  go  into  the 
shady  parlor,  gave  him  a  keen  glance — and  for 
some  reason  his  eyes  also  grew  bright  with  ex 
pectation. 

"There's  something  worth  looking  at,**  he  ex 
claimed  in  a  laughing  voice. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Frere  gruffly. 

"Nothing,  old  man — at  least  nothing  special.  I 
say,  doesn't  Hetty  look  superb?" 

"You've  no  right  to  call  her  Hetty." 

Everett  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"I  rather  fancy  I  have,"  he  answered — "she 
gave  me  leave  this  morning." 

"Impossible,**  said  Frere.  He  turned  pale 
under  all  his  sunburn,  and  bit  his  lower  lip. 
"Don't  you  find  the  sun  very  hot?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  it  is  sinking  into  the  west — the  great  heat 
is  over.  Let  us  go  and  enliven  this  little  charmer. " 

"  I  will, "  said  Frere  suddenly.  "  You  had  better 
•toy  here  where  you  are.  It  is  my  right,"  h« 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  7 

added.    "I  was  about  to  tell  you  so,  when  she 

came  in  view." 

"Your  right?"  cried  Everett;  he  looked  dis 
turbed. 

Frere  did  not  reply,  but  strode  quickly  down  the 
village  street.  A  dozen  strides  brought  him  up  to 
Hetty's  side.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  with  a  face 
and  figure  much  above  her  station.  Her  hat  was 
covered  with  wild  flowers  which  she  had  picked 
in  her  walk,  and  coquettishly  placed  there.  She 
wore  a  pink  dress  covered  with  rosebuds — some 
wild  flowers  were  stuck  into  her  belt.  As  Frere 
advanced  to  meet  her,  her  laughing  eyes  were 
raised  to  his  face — there  was  a  curious  mixture  of 
timidity  and  audacity  in  their  glance. 

"I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,"  he  accosted  her 
in  a  gruff  tone.  "What  right  had  you  to  give 
Everett  leave  to  call  you  Hetty?" 

The  timidity  immediately  left  the  bright  eyes, 
and  a  slight  expression  of  anger  took  its  place. 

"Because  I  like  to  distribute  my  favors,  Mr. 
Horace." 

She  quickened  her  pace  as  she  spoke.  Everett, 
who  had  been  standing  quite  still  in  the  porch 
watching  the  little  scene,  came  out  to  meet  the 
pair.  Hetty  flushed  crimson  when  she  saw  him ; 
she  raised  her  dancing,  charming  dark  eyes  to  his 
face,  then  looked  again  at  Frere,  who  turned  sul 
lenly  away. 

"I  hope,  gentlemen,  you  have  had  good  sport," 
said  the  rustic  beauty,  in  her  demure  voice. 


8  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Excellent,"  replied  Everett. 

They  had  now  reached  the  porch,  which  was  en 
twined  all  over  with  honeysuckle  in  full  flower.  A 
great  spray  of  the  fragrant  flower  nearly  touched 
the  girl's  charming  face.  She  glanced  again  at 
Frere.  He  would  not  meet  her  eyes.  Her  whole 
face  sparkled  with  the  feminine  love  of  teasing. 

"Why  is  he  so  jealous?"  she  whispered  to  her 
self.  "It  would  be  fun  to  punish  him.  I  like 
him  better  than  Mr.  Everett,  but  I'll  punish  him." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  a  buttonhole?"  she  said,  look 
ing  at  Everett. 

"If  you'll  be  so  kind,"  he  replied. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  honeysuckle  over  her 
head,  selected  a  spray  with  extreme  care,  and 
handed  it  to  him  demurely.  He  asked  her  to  place 
it  in  his  buttonhole ;  she  looked  again  at  Frere, — he 
would  not  go  away,  but  neither  would  he  bring 
himself  to  glance  at  her.  She  bent  her  head  to 
search  in  the  bodice  of  her  dress  for  a  pin,  found 
one,  and  then  with  a  laughing  glance  of  her  eyes 
into  Everett's  handsome  face,  complied  with  his 
request. 

The  young  fellow  blushed  with  pleasure,  then  he 
glanced  at  Frere,  and  a  feeling  of  compunction 
smote  him — he  strode  abruptly  into  the  house. 

"Hetty,  what  do  you  mean  by  this  sort  of 
thing?"  said  Frere  the  moment  they  were  alone. 

"I  mean  this,  Mr.  Horace:  I  am  still  my  own 
mistress." 

"Great  Scot!  of  course  you  are;  but  what  do 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  9 

you  mean  by  this  sort  of  trifling?  It  was  only 
this  morning  that  you  told  me  you  loved  me. 
Look  here,  Hetty,  I'm  in  no  humor  to  be  trifled 
with ;  I  can't  and  won't  stand  it.  I'll  make  you 
the  best  husband  a  girl  ever  had,  but  listen  to  me, 
I  have  the  devil's  own  temper  when  it  is  roused. 
For  God's  sake  don't  provoke  it.  If  you  don't 
love  me,  say  so,  and  let  there  be  an  end  of  it." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  so  loudly,"  said 
Hetty,  pouting  her  lips  and  half  crying.  "Of 
course  I  like  you ;  I — well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  love 
you.  I  was  thinking  of  you  all  the  afternoon. 
See  what  I  gathered  for  you — this  bunch  of  heart's- 
ease.  There's  meaning  in  heart's-ease — there's 
none  in  honeysuckle." 

Frere's  brow  cleared  as  if  by  magic. 

"My  little  darling,"  he  said,  fixing  his  deep-set 
eyes  greedily  on  the  girl's  beautiful  face.  "  For 
give  me  for  being  such  a  brute  to  you,  Hetty.  Here 
— give  me  the  flowers." 

"No,  not  until  you  pay  for  them.  You  don't 
deserve  them  for  being  so  nasty  and  suspicious." 

u  Give  me  the  flowers,  Hetty ;  I  promise  never 
to  doubt  you  again." 

"Yes,  you  will;  it  is  your  nature  to  doubt.*' 

"I  have  no  words  to  say  what  I  feel  for  you." 

Frere's  eyes  emphasized  this  statement  so  em 
phatically,  that  the  empty-headed  girl  by  his  side 
felt  her  heart  touched  for  the  moment. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Mr.  Horace?"  she 
askecl,  lowering  her  eyes. 


10  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"To  give  me  the  flowers,  and  to  be  nice  to  me." 

"  Come  down  to  the  brook  after  supper,  perhaps 
I'll  give  them  to  you  then.  There's  aunt  calling 
me— don't  keep  me,  please."  She  rushed  off. 

"Hetty,"  said  Mrs.  Armitage,  the  innkeeper's 
wife,  "  did  I  hear  you  talking  to  Mr.  Horace  Frere 
in  the  porch?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Fanny,  you  did,"  replied  Hetty. 

"Well,  look  here,  your  uncle  and  I  won't  have 
it.  Just  because  you're  pretty " 

Hetty  tossed  back  her  wealth  of  black  curls. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  her  eyes 
shining  as  she  spoke.  "  He  wants  me  to  be  his 
wife — he  asked  me  this  morning." 

"He  doesn't  mean  that,  surely,"  said  Mrs. 
Armitage,  incredulous  and  pleased. 

"Yes,  he  does;  he'll  speak  to  uncle  to-morrow — 
that  is,  if  I'll  say  'Yes.'  He  says  he  has  no  one 
to  consult — he'll  make  me  a  lady — he  has  plenty 
of  money." 

"Do  you  care  for  him,  Hetty?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  whether  I  do  or  not,  Aunt 
Fanny — I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you." 

Hetty  moved  noisily  about.  She  put  plates  and 
dishes  on  a  tray  preparatory  to  taking  them  into 
the  parlor  for  the  young  men's  supper. 

"Look  here,"  said  her  aunt,  "I'll  see  after  the 
parlor  lodgers  to-night."  She  lifted  the  tray  as 
she  spoke. 

Hetty  ran  up  to  her  bedroom.  She  took  a  little 
square  of  glass  from  its  place  on  the  wall  and 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  11 

gazed  earnestly  at  the  reflection  of  her  own  charm 
ing  face.  Presently  she  put  the  glass  down,  locked 
her  hands  together,  went  over  to  the  open  window 
and  looked  out. 

"Shall  I  marry  him?"  she  thought.  "He  has 
plenty  of  money — he  loves  me  right  enough.  If  I 
were  his  wife,  I'd  be  a  lady — I  needn't  worry 
about  household  work  any  more.  I  hate  house 
hold  work — I  hate  drudgery.  I  want  to  have  a 
fine  time,  with  nothing  to  do  but  just  to  think  of 
my  dress  and  how  I  look.  He  has  plenty  of 
money,  and  he  loves  me — he  says  he'll  make  me 
his  wife  as  soon  as  ever  I  say  the  word.  Uncle 
and  aunt  would  be  pleased,  too,  and  the  people  in 
the  village  would  say  I'd  made  a  good  match. 
Shall  I  marry  him?  I  don't  love  him  a  bit,  but 
what  does  that  matter?" 

She  sighed — the  color  slightly  faded  on  her 
blooming  cheeks — she  poked  her  head  out  of  the 
little  window. 

"  I  don't  love  him, "  she  said  to  herself.  "  When 
I  see  Mr.  Awdrey  my  heart  beats.  Ever  since  I 
was  a  little  child  I  have  thought  more  of  Mr. 
Awdrey  than  of  any  one  else  in  all  the  world.  I 
never  told — no,  I  never  told,  but  I'd  rather  slave 
for  Mr.  Eobert  Awdrey  than  be  the  wife  of  any  one 
else  on  earth.  What  a  'fool  I  am !  Mr.  Awdrey 
thinks  nothing  of  me,  but  he  is  never  out  of  my 
head,  nor  out  of  my  heart.  My  heart  aches  for 
him — I'm  nearly  mad  sometimes  about  it  all. 
Perhaps  I'll  see  him  to-night  if  I  go  down  to  the 


12  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

brook.  He's  sure  to  pass  the  brook  on  his  way  to 
the  Court.  Mr.  Everett  likes  me  too,  I  know,  and 
he's  a  gentleman  as  well  as  Mr.  Frere.  Oh,  dear, 
they  both  worry  me  more  than  please  me.  I'd  give 
twenty  men  like  them  for  one  sight  of  the  young 
Squire.  Oh,  what  folly  all  this  is !" 

She  went  again  and  stood  opposite  to  her  little 
Booking-glass. 

"  The  young  ladies  up  at  the  Court  haven't  got 
a  face  like  mine,"  she  murmured.  "There  isn't 
any  one  all  over  the  place  has  a  face  like  mine.  I 
wonder  if  Mr.  Awdrey  really  thinks  it  pretty? 
Why  should  I  worry  myself  about  Mr.  Frere?  I 
wonder  if  Mr.  Awdrey  would  mind  if  I  married 
him — would  it  make  him  jealous?  If  I  thought 
that,  I'd  do  it  fast  enough — yes,  I  declare  I  would. 
But  of  course  he  wouldn't  mind — not  ono  bit;  he 
has  scarcely  ever  said  two  words  to  me — not  since 
we  were  little  'uns  together,  and  pelted  each  other 
with  apples  in  uncle's  orchard.  Oh,  Mr.  Awdrey, 
I'd  give  all  the  world  for  one  smile  from  you,  but 
you  think  nothing  at  all  of  poor  Hetty.  Dear, 
beautiful  Mr.  Awdrey — won't  you  love  me  even  a 
little — even  as  you  love  your  dog?  Yes,  I'll  go 
and  walk  by  the  brook  after  supper.  Mr.  Frere 
will  meet  me  there,  of  course,  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Awdrey  will  go  by — perhaps  he'll  be  jealous.  I'll 
take  my  poetry  book  and  sit  by  the  brook  just 
where  the  forget-me-nots  grow.  Yes,  yes — oh,  I 
wonder  if  the  Squire  will  go  by." 

These  thoughts  no  sooner  came  into  Hetty's 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  13 

brain  than  she  resolved  to  act  upon  them.  She 
snatched  up  a  volume  of  L.  E.  L.'s  poems — their 
weak  and  lovelorn  phrases  exactly  suited  her  style 
and  order  of  mind — and  ran  quickly  down  to  a 
dancing  rivulet  which  ran  its  merry  course  about 
a  hundred  yards  back  of  the  Inn.  She  sat  by  the 
bank,  pulled  a  great  bunch  of  forget-me-nots,  laid 
them  on  the  open  pages  of  her  book,  and  looked 
musingly  down  at  the  flowers.  Footsteps  were 
heard  crunching  the  underwood  at  the  opposite 
side.  A  voice  presently  sounded  in  her  ears. 
Hetty's  heart  beat  loudly. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  voice. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Robert,"  she  replied. 

Her  tone  was  demure  and  extremely  respectful. 
She  started  to  her  feet,  letting  her  flowers  drop  as 
she  did  so.  A  blush  suffused  her  lovely  face,  her 
dancing  eyes  were  raised  for  a  quick  moment,  then 
as  suddenly  lowered.  She  made  a  beautiful 
picture.  The  young  man  who  stood  a  few  feet 
away  from  her,  with  the  running  water  dividing 
them,  evidently  thought  so.  He  had  a  boyish 
figure — a  handsome,  manly  face.  His  eyes  were 
very  dark,  deeply  set,  and  capable  of  much  thought. 
He  looked  every  inch  the  gentleman. 

"Is  Armitage  in?"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Robert,  I'll  go  and  inquire 
if  you  like." 

"  No,  it  doesn't  matter.  The  Squire  asked  me  to 
call  and  beg  of  your  uncle  to  come  to  the  Court  to 
morrow  morning.  Will  you  give  him  the  message?" 


14  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Kobert." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Hetty  looked 
down  at  the  water.  Awdrey  looked  at  her. 

"Good-evening,"  he  said  then. 

"Good-evening,  sir,"  she  replied. 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  up  the  narrow  path 
which  led  toward  the  Court. 

"  His  eyes  told  me  to-night  that  he  thought  me 
pretty,"  muttered  Hetty  to  herself,  "why  doesn't 
he  say  it  with  his  lips?  I — I  wish  I  could  make 
him.  Oh,  is  that  you,  Mr.  Frere?" 

"  Yes,  Hetty.  I  promised  to  come,  and  I  am 
here.  The  evening  is  a  perfect  one,  let  us  follow 
the  stream  a  little  way." 

Hetty  was  about  to  say  "No, "when  suddenly 
lifting  her  eyes,  she  observed  that  the  young  Squire 
had  paused  under  the  shade  of  a  great  elm-tree  a 
little  further  up  the  bank.  A  quick  idea  darted 
into  her  vain  little  soul.  She  would  walk  past  the 
Squire  without  pretending  to  see  him,  in  Frere's 
company.  Frere  should  make  love  to  her  in  the 
Squire's  presence.  She  gave  her  lover  a  coy  and 
affectionate  glance. 

"Yes,  come,"  she  said:  "it  is  pretty  by  the 
stream;  perhaps  I'll  give  you  some  forget-me-nots 
presently." 

"I  want  the  heart' s-ease  which  you  have  already 
picked  for  me,"  said  Frere. 

"Oh,  there's  time  enough." 

Frere  advanced  a  step,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  girl's  arm. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  15 

*  Listen,"  he  said :  "  I  was  never  more  in  earnest 
in  my  life.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 
I  love  you  madly.  I  want  you  for  my  wife.  I 
mean  to  marry  you,  come  what  may.  I  have 
plenty  of  money  and  you  are  the  wife  of  all  others 
for  me.  You  told  me  this  morning  that  you  loved 
me,  Hetty.  Tell  me  again ;  say  that  you  love  me 
better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world." 

Hetty  paused,  she  raised  her  dark  eyes;  the 
Squire  was  almost  within  earshot. 

"I  suppose  I  love  you — a  little,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

"Then  give  me  a  kiss — just  one." 

She  walked  on.     Frere  followed. 

"Give  me  a  kiss — just  one,"  he  repeated. 

"Not  to-night,"  she  replied,  in  a  demure  voice. 

"Yes,  you  must — I  insist." 

"Don't,  Mr.  Frere,"  she  called  out  sharply, 
uttering  a  cry  as  she  spoke. 

He  didn't  mind  her.  Overcome  by  his  passion 
he  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 
his  lips  many  times  to  hers. 

"Hold,  sir!  What  are  you  doing?"  shouted 
Awdrey's  voice  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  bank. 

"By  heaven,  what  is  that  to  you?"  called  Frere 
back. 

He  let  Hetty  go  with  some  violence,  and  retreated 
one  or  two  steps  in  his  astonishment.  His  face 
was  crimson  up  to  the  roots  of  his  honest  brow. 

Awdrey  leaped  across  the  brook.  "You  will 
please  understand  that  you  take  liberties  with  Misa 


16  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Armitage  at  your  peril,"  he  said.  "  What  right 
have  you  to  take  such  advantage  of  an  undefended 
girl?  Hetty,  I  will  see  you  home." 

Hetty's  eyes  danced  with  delight.  For  a  mo 
ment  Frere  felt  too  stunned  to  speak. 

"Come  with  me,  Hetty,"  said  Awdrey,  putting  a 
great  restraint  upon  himself,  but  speaking  with 
irritation.  "  Come — you  should  be  at  home  at  this 
hour." 

"  You  shall  answer  to  me  for  this,  whoever  you 
are,"  said  Frere,  whose  face  was  white  with  passion. 

"My  name  is  Awdrey,"  said  the  Squire;  "I 
will  answer  you  in  a  way  you  don't  like  if  you 
don't  instantly  leave  this  young  girl  alone. " 

"Confound  your  interference,"  said  Frere.  "I 
am  not  ashamed  of  my  actions.  I  can  justify 
them.  I  am  going  to  marry  Miss  Armitage." 

"Is  that  true,  Hetty?"  said  Awdrey,  looking  at 
the  girl  in  some  astonishment. 

"No,  there  isn't  a  word  of  it  true,"  answered 
Hetty,  stung  by  a  look  on  the  Squire's  face.  u  I 
don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him— he 
shan't  kiss  me.  I — I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him."  She  burst  into  tears. 

"I'll  see  you  home,"  said  Awdrey. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  Awdreys  of  "  The  Court"  could  trace  their 
descent  back  to  the  Norman  Conquest.  They 
were  a  proud  family  with  all  the  special  character 
istics  which  mark  races  of  long  descent.  Among 
the  usual  accompaniments  of  race,  was  given  to 
them  the  curse  of  heredity.  A  strange  and  pecul 
iar  doom  hung  over  the  house.  It  had  descended 
now  from  father  to  son  during  many  generations. 
How  it  had  first  raised  its  gorgon  head  no  one 
could  tell.  People  said  that  it  had  been  sent  as  a 
punishment  for  the  greed  of  gold.  An  old  an 
cestor,  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
had  married  a  West  Indian  heiress.  She  had 
colored  blood  in  her  veins,  a  purse  of  enormous 
magnitude,  a  deformed  figure,  and,  what  was  more 
to  the  point,  a  particularly  crooked  and  obtuse 
order  of  mind.  She  did  her  duty  by  her  descend 
ants,  leaving  to  each  of  them  a  gift.  To  one,  de 
formity  of  person — to  another,  a  stammering 
tongue — to  a  third,  a  squint — to  a  fourth,  imbecil 
ity.  In  each  succeeding  generation,  at  least  one 
man  and  woman  of  the  house  of  Awdrey  had  cause 
to  regret  the  gold  which  had  certainly  brought  a 
curse  with  it  But  beyond  and  above  all  these 


18  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

things,  it  was  immediately  after  the  West  Indian's 
entrance  into  the  family  that  that  strange  doom  be 
gan  to  assail  the  male  members  of  the  house  which 
was  now  more  dreaded  than  madness.  The  doom 
was  unique  and  curious.  It  consisted  of  one  re 
markable  phase.  There  came  upon  those  on  whom 
it  descended  an  extraordinary  and  complete  lapse 
of  memory  for  the  grave  events  of  life,  accompanied 
by  perfect  retention  of  memory  for  all  minor 
matters.  This  curious  phase  once  developed,  other 
idiosyncrasies  immediately  followed.  The  victim's 
moral  sense  became  weakened — all  physical  energy 
departed — a  curious  lassitude  of  mind  and  body 
became  general.  The  victim  did  not  in  the  least 
know  that  there  was  anything  special  the  matter 
with  him,  but  as  a  rule  the  doomed  man  either  be 
came  idiotic,  or  died  before  the  age  of  thirty. 

All  the  great  physicians  of  their  time  had  been 
consulted  with  regard  to  this  curious  family  trait, 
but  in  the  first  place  no  one  could  understand  it, 
in  the  second  no  possible  cure  could  be  suggested 
as  a  remedy.  The  curse  was  supposed  to  be  due 
to  a  brain  affection,  but  brain  affections  in  the  old 
days  were  considered  to  be_  special  visitations 
from  God,  and  men  of  science  let  them  alone. 

In  their  early  life,  the  Awdreys  were  particularly 
bright,  clever  sharp  fellows,  endowed  with  excel 
lent  animal  spirits,  and  many  amiable  traits  of 
character.  They  were  chivalrous  to  women,  kind 
to  children,  full  of  warm  affections,  and  each  and 
all  of  them  possessed  much  of  the  golden  gift  of 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  19 

hope.  As  a  rule  the  doom  of  the  house  came  upon 
each  victim  with  startling  suddenness.  One  of  the 
disappointments  of  life  ensued — an  unfortunate 
love  affair — the  death  of  some  beloved  member — a 
money  loss.  The  victim  lost  all  memory  of  the 
event.  No  words,  no  explanations  could  revive 
the  dead  memory — the  thing  was  completely  blotted 
out  from  the  phonograph  of  the  brain.  Immedi 
ately  afterward  followed  the  mental  and  physical 
decay.  The  girls  of  the  family  quite  escaped  the 
curse.  It  was  on  the  sons  that  it  invariably  de 
scended. 

Up  to  the  present  time,  however,  Robert  Aw- 
drey's  father  had  lived  to  confute  the  West  Indian's 
dire  curse.  His  father  had  married  a  Scotch 
lassie,  with  no  bluer  blood  in  her  veins  than  that 
which  had  been  given  to  her  by  some  rugged  Scotch 
ancestors.  Her  health  of  mind  and  body  had 
done  her  descendants  much  good.  Even  the  word 
"  nerves"  had  been  unknown  to  this  healthy-minded 
daughter  of  the  North — her  children  had  all  up  to 
the  present  escaped  the  family  curse,  and  it  was 
now  firmly  believed  at  the  Court  that  the  spell 
was  broken,  and  that  the  West  Indian's  awful  doom 
would  leave  the  family.  The  matter  was  too 
solemn  and  painful  to  be  alluded  to  except  under 
the  gravest  conditions,  and  young  Robert  Awdrey, 
the  heir  to  the  old  place  and  all  its  belongings,  was 
certainly  the  last  person  to  speak  of  it. 

Robert's  father  was  matter-of-fact  to  the  back 
bone,  but  Robert  himself  was  possessed  of  an  essen- 


20  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

tially  reflective  temperament.  Had  he  been  less 
healthily  brought  up  by  his  stout  old  grandmother 
and  by  his  mother,  he  might  have  given  way  to 
morbid  musings.  Circumstances,  however,  were 
all  in  his  favor,  and  at  the  time  when  this  strange 
story  really  opens,  he  was  looking  out  at  life  with 
a  heart  full  of  hope  and  a  mind  filled  with  noble 
ambitions.  Robert  was  the  only  son — he  had  two 
sisters,  bright,  good-natured,  eyery-day  sort  of 
girls.  As  a  matter  of  course  his  sisters  adored 
him.  They  looked  forward  to  his  career  with  im 
mense  pride.  He  was  to  stand  for  Parliament  at 
the  next  general  election.  His  brains  belonged  to 
the  highest  order  of  Intellect.  He  had  taken  a 
double  first  at  the  University — there  was  no  posi 
tion  which  he  might  not  hope  to  assume. 

Robert  had  all  the  chivalrous  instincts  of  his 
race  toward  women.  As  he  walked  quickly  home 
now  with  H^tty  by  his  side,  his  blood  boiled  at 
the  thought  of  the  insult  which  had  been  offered 
to  her.  Poor,  silly  little  Hetty  was  nothing  what' 
ever  to  him  except  a  remarkably  pretty  village  girl 
Her  people,  however,  were  his  father's  tenants;  he 
felt  it  his  duty  to  protect  her.  When  he  parted 
with  her  just  outside  the  village  inn,  he  said  a  few 
words. 

"You  ought  not  to  allow  those  young  men  to 
take  liberties  with  you,  Hetty,"  he  said.  "Now, 
go  home.  Don't  be  out  so  late  again  in  the  future, 
and  don't  forget  to  give  your  uncle  my  father's 
message." 


DR    RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  21 

She  bent  her  head,  and  left  him  without  reply 
ing.  She  did  not  even  thank  him.  He  watched 
her  until  she  disappeared  into  the  house,  then 
turned  sharply  and  walked  up  the  village  street 
home  with  a  vigorous  step. 

He  had  come  to  the  spot  where  he  had  parted 
with  Frere,  and  was  just  about  to  leap  the  brook, 
'yhen  that  young  man  started  suddenly  from  under 
a  tree,  and  stood  directly  in  his  path. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  apologize  to  me,"  he  said. 

Awdrey  flushed. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  replied. 

"What  I  say.  My  intentions  toward  Miss 
Armitage  are  perfectly  honest.  She  promised  to 
marry  me  this  morning.  When  you  chose  to  inter 
fere,  I  was  kissing  my  future  wife." 

"If  that  is  really  the  case,  I  beg  your  pardon," 
said  Awdrey;  "but  then,"  he  continued,  looking 
full  at  Frere,  "  Hetty  Armitage  denies  any  thought 
of  marrying  you." 

"She  does,  does  she?"  muttered  Frere.  His 
face  turned  white. 

"  One  word  before  you  go, "  said  Awdrey.  "  Miss 
Armitage  is  a  pretty  girl " 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  replied  Frere,  "I  don't 
mean  to  discuss  her  with  you." 

"  You  may  please  yourself  about  that,  but  allow 
*aae  to  say  one  thing.  Her  uncle  is  one  of  my 
father's  oldest  and  most  respected  tenants;  Hetty 
is  therefore  under  our  protection,  and  I  for  one 
will  see.  that  sjje  gets  fair  play.  Any  one  whc> 


22  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

takes  liberties  with  her  has  got  to  answer  to  me. 
That's  all.  Good-evening." 

Awdrey  slightly  raised  his  hat,  leaped  the  brook, 
and  disappeared  through  the  underwood  in  the 
direction  of  the  Court. 

Horace  Frere  stood  and  watched  him. 

His  rage  was  now  almost  at  white  heat.  He 
was  madly  in  love,  and  was  therefore  not  quite  re 
sponsible  for  his  own  actions.  He  was  determined 
at  any  cost  to  make  Hetty  his  wife.  The  Squire's 
interference  awoke  the  demon  of  jealousy  in  his 
heart.  He  had  patiently  borne  Everett's  marked 
attentions  to  the  girl  of  his  choice — he  wondered 
now  at  the  sudden  passion  which  filled  him.  He 
walked  back  to  the  inn  feeling  exactly  as  if  the 
devil  were  driving  him. 

*  I'll  have  this  thing  out  with  Hetty  before  I  am 
an  hour  older,"  he  cried  aloud.  "She  promised 
to  marry  me  this  very  morning.  How  dare  that 
jackanapes  interfere !  What  do  I  care  for  his  posi 
tion  in  the  place?  If  he's  twenty  times  the  Squire 
it's  nothing  to  me.  Hetty  had  the  cool  cheek  to 
eat  her  own  words  to  him  in  my  presence.  It's 
plain  to  be  seen  what  the  thing  means.  She's  a 
heartless  flirt — she's  flying  for"  higher  game  than 
honest  Horace  Frere,  but  I'll  put  a  spoke  in  her 
wheel,  and  in  his  wheel  too,  curse  him.  He's  in 
love  with  the  girl  himself — that's  why  he  interferes. 
Well,  she  shall  choose  between  him  and  me  to 
night,  and  if  she  does  choose  him  it  will  be  all  the 
worse  for  him." 


bit.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  83 

As  lie  rushed  home,  Frere  lashed  himself  into 
greater  and  greater  fury.  Everett  was  standing  in 
side  the  porch  when  the  other  man  passed  him 
roughly  by. 

"I  say,  Frere,  what's  up?"  called  Everett,  tak 
ing  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Curse  you,  don't  keep  me,  I  want  to  speak  to 
Miss  Armitage." 

Everett  burst  into  a  somewhat  discordant  laugh. 

"  Your  manners  are  not  quite  to  be  desired  at  the 
present  moment,  old  man,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Armi 
tage  seems  to  have  a  strangely  disquieting  effect 
upon  her  swains." 

"I  do  not  intend  to  discuss  her  with  you, 
Everett.  I  must  speak  to  her  at  once." 

Everett  laughed  again. 

"She  seems  to  be  a  person  of  distinction,"  he 
said.  "  She  has  just  been  seen  home  with  much 
ceremony  by  no  less  a  person  than  Awdrey,  of  The 
Court." 

"  Curse  Awdrey  and  all  his  belongings.  Do  you 
know  where  she  is?" 

A  sweet,  high-pitched  voice  within  the  house 
now  made  itself  heard. 

"  I  can  see  you  in  Aunt's  parlor  if  you  like,  Mr. 
Horace." 

"Yes." 

Frere  strode  into  the  house — a  moment  later  he 
was  standing  opposite  to  Hetty  in  the  little  hot 
gaslit  parlor. 

Hetty  had  evidently  been  crying.     Her  tears 


24  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

had  brought  shadows  under  her  eyes — they  added 
pathos  to  her  lovely  face,  giving  it  a  look  of  depth 
which  it  usually  lacked.  Frere  gave  her  one  glance, 
then  he  felt  his  anger  dropping  from  him  like  a 
mantle. 

"For  God's  sake,  Hetty,  speak  the  truth,  '  said 
the  poor  fellow. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  Mr.  Horace?" 
she  asked. 

Her  voice  was  tremulous,  her  tears  nearly  broke 
forth  anew.  Frere  made  a  step  forward.  He 
would  have  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  but  she  would 
not  allow  him. 

"No,"  she  said  with  a  sob,  "I  can't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  you." 

"Hetty,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
Hetty,  remember  this  morning." 

"  I  remember  it,  but  I  can't  go  on  with  it.  For 
get  everything  I  said — go  away — please  go  away." 

"No,  I  won't  go  away.  By  heaven,  you  shall 
tell  me  the  truth.  Look  here,  Hetty,  I  won't  be 
humbugged — you've  got  to  choose  at  once." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Horace?" 

"You've  got  to  choose  between  that  fellow  and 
me." 

"Between  you  and  the  Squire!"  exclaimed 
Hetty. 

She  laughed  excitedly ;  the  bare  idea  caused  her 
heart  to  beat  wildly.  Her  laughter  nearly  drove 
Frere  mad.  He  strode  up  to  her,  took  her  hands 
with  force,  and  looked  into  her  frightened  eyes. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  25 

"Do  you  love  him?  The  truth,  girl,  I  will  have 
it." 

"Let  me  go,  Mr.  Horace." 

"  I  won't  until  you  tell  me  the  truth.  It  is  either 
the  Squire  or  me;  I  must  hear  the  truth  now  or 
never— which  is  it,  Squire  Awdrey  or  me?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Hetty,  bursting  into 
tears — "it's  the  Squire— oh,  sir,  let  me  go." 


CHAPTER 

FEEEE  stood  perfectly  still  for  a  moment  after 
Hetty  had  spoken,  then  without  a  word  he  turned 
and  left  her.  Everett  was  still  standing  in  the 
porch.  Everett  had  owned  to  himself  that  he  had 
a  decided  penchant  for  the  little  rustic  beauty,  but 
Frere's  fierce  passion  cooled  his.  He  did  not  feel 
particularly  inclined,  however,  to  sympathize  with 
his  friend. 

"How  rough  you  are,  Frere!"  he  said  angrily; 
"you've  almost  knocked  the  pipe  out  of  my  mouth 
a  second  time  this  evening." 

Frere  went  out  into  the  night  without  uttering  a 
syllable. 

"  Where  are  you  off  to?"  called  Everett  after  him. 

"  What  is  that  to  you?"  was  shouted  back. 

Everett  said  something  further.  A  strong  and 
very  emphatic  oath  left  Frere's  lips  in  reply.  The 
innkeeper,  Armitage,  was  passing  the  young  man 
at  the  moment.  He  stared  at  him,  wondering  at 
the  whiteness  of  his  face,  and  the  extraordinary 
energy  of  his  language.  Armitage  went  indoors  to 
supper,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  circumstance. 
He  was  destined,  however,  to  remember  it  later. 
Everett  continued  to  smoke  his  pipe  with  philo- 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  27 

sophical  calm.  He  Loped  against  hope  that  pretty 
little  Hetty  might  come  and  stand  in  the  porch 
with  him.  Finding  she  did  not  appear,  he  resolved 
to  go  out  and  look  for  his  friend.  He  was  leaving 
the  Inn  when  Armitage  called  after  him : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Everett,  but  will  you  be 
out  late?" 

"I  can't  say,  "replied  Everett,  stopping  short  j 
"why?" 

"Because  if  so,  sir,  you  had  better  take  the 
latchkey.  We're  going  to  shut  up  the  whole  place 
early  to-night;  the  wife  is  dead  beat,  and  Hetty  is 
not  quite  well." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that, "said Everett,  after  a  pause; 
u  well,  give  me  the  key.  I  dare  say  I'll  return  quite 
soon;  I  am  only  going  out  to  meet  Mr.  Frere." 

Armitage  gave  the  young  man  the  key  and  re 
turned  to  the  house. 

Meanwhile  Frere  had  wandered  some  distance 
from  the  pretty  little  village  and  the  charming 
rustic  inn.  His  mind  was  out  of  tune  with  all 
harmony  and  beauty.  He  was  in  the  sort  of  con 
dition  when  men  will  do  mad  deeds  not  knowing  in 
the  least  why  they  do  them.  Hetty's  words  had, 
as  he  himself  expressed  it,  "awakened  the  very 
devil  in  him." 

"  She  has  owned  it, "  he  kept  saying  to  himself. 
"  Yes,  I  was  right  in  my  conjecture — he  wants  her 
himself.  Much  he  regards  honor  and  behaving 
straight  to  a  woman.  I'll  show  him  a  thing  or 
two.  Jove,  if  I  meet  him  to-night,  he'll  rue  it." 


28  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

The  great  solemn  plain  of  Salisbury  lay  not  two 
miles  off.  Frere  made  for  its  broad  downs  with 
out  knowing  in  the  least  that  he  was  doing  so.  By 
and  by,  he  found  himself  on  a  vast  open  space, 
spreading  sheer  away  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 
The  moon,  which  had  been  bright  when  he  had 
started  on  his  walk,  was  now  about  to  set — it  was 
casting  long  shadows  on  the  ground;  his  own 
shadow  in  gigantic  dimensions  walked  by  his  side 
as  he  neared  the  vicinity  of  the  plain.  He  walked 
on  and  on ;  the  further  he  went  the  more  fiercely 
did  his  blood  boil  within  him.  All  his  life  hitherto 
he  had  been  calm,  collected,  reasonable.  He  had 
taken  the  events  of  life  with  a  certain  rude  philoso 
phy.  He  had  intended  to  do  well  for  himself — to 
carve  out  a  prosperous  career  for  himself,  but  al 
though  he  had  subdued  his  passions  both  at  college 
and  at  school,  he  had  never  blinded  his  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  there  lived  within  his  breast,  ready  to  be 
awakened  when  the  time  came,  a  devil.  Once,  as 
a  child,  he  had  given  way  to  this  mad  fury.  He 
had  flung  a  knife  at  his  brother,  wounding  him  in 
the  temple,  and  almost  killing  him.  The  sight  of 
the  blood  and  the  fainting  form  of  his  only  brother 
had  awakened  his  better  self.  -.He  had  lived 
through  agony  while  his  brother's  life  hung  in  the 
balance.  The  lad  eventually  recovered,  to  die  in 
a  year  or  two  of  something  else,  but  Frere  never 
forgot  that  time  of  mental  torture.  From  that 
hour  until  the  present,  he  had  kept  his  "devil," 
as  he  used  to  call  it,  well  in  check. 


DR.  RVMSEY'S  PATIENT.  29 

It  was  rampant  to-night,  however — he  knew  it, 
he  took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  fact  from  his  own 
heart — ho  rather  gloried  in  the  knowledge. 

He  walked  on  and  on,  across  the  plain. 

Presently  in  the  dim  distance  he  heard  Everett 
calling  him. 

"  Frere,  I  say  Frere,  stop  a  moment,  I'll  come 
up  to  you." 

A  man  who  had  been  collecting  underwood,  and 
was  returning  home  with  a  bagful,  suddenly  ap 
peared  in  Frere 's  path.  Hearing  the  voice  of  the 
man  shouting  behind  he  stopped. 

"  There  be  some-un  calling  y er, "  he  said  in  his 
rude  dialect. 

Frere  stared  at  the  man  blindly.  He  looked 
behind  him,  saw  Everett's  figure  silhouetted  against 
the  sky,  and  then  took  wildly  to  his  heels ;  he  ran 
as  if  something  evil  were  pursuing  him. 

At  this  moment  the  moon  went  completely  down, 
and  the  whole  of  the  vast  plain  lay  in  dim  gray 
shadow.  Frere  had  not  the  least  idea  where  he 
was  running.  He  and  Everett  had  spent  whole 
days  on  the  plain  revelling  in  the  solitude  and  the 
splendid  air,  but  they  had  neither  of  them  ever 
visited  it  at  night  before.  The  whole  place  was 
strange,  uncanny,  unfamiliar.  Frere  soon  lost  his 
bearings.  He  tumbled  into  a  hole,  uttered  an  ex 
clamation  of  pain,  and  raised  himself  with  some 
difficulty. 

"  Hullo !"  said  a  voice,  a  you  might  have  broken 
your  leg.  What  are  you  doing  here?" 


80  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Frere  stood  upright;  a  man  slighter  and  taller 
than  himself  faced  him  about  three  feet  away. 
Frere  could  not  recognize  the  face,  but  he  knew  the 
tone. 

u  What  the  devil  have  you  come  to  meet  me  for?" 
he  said.  "  You've  come  to  meet  a  madman.  Turn 
back  and  go  home,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Awdrey. 

Frere  put  a  tremendous  restraint  upon  himself. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  injure 
you,  upon  my  soul  I  don't,  but  there's  a  devil  in 
me  to-night,  and  you  had  better  go  home  without 
any  more  words." 

al  shall  certainly  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  an 
swered  Awdrey.  "  The  plain  is  as  open  to  me  as 
to  you.  If  you  dislike  me  take  your  own  path." 

"  My  path  is  right  across  where  you  are  stand 
ing,"  said  Frere. 

"  Well,  step  aside  and  leave  me  alone !" 

It  was  so  dark  the  men  only  appeared  as  shadows 
one  to  the  other.  Their  voices,  each  of  them 
growing  hot  and  passionate,  seemed  scarcely  to 
belong  to  themselves.  Frere  came  a  step  nearer 
to  Awdrey. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  he  cried.  '"By  the  heaven 
above,  I  don't  want  to  spare  you.  Let  me  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  you." 

"Sir,"  said  Awdrey,  "I  don't  wish  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  you — leave  me,  go  about  your 
business." 

"I  will  after  I've  told  you  a  bit  of  my  mind. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  31 

You're  a  confounded  sneak — you're  a  liar — you're 
no  gentleman.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  interfered 
between  me  and  my  girl  to-night — because  you 
want  her  for  yourself !" 

This  sudden  accusation  so  astounded  Awdrey 
that  he  did  not  even  reply.  He  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  Frere  was  really  mad. 

"You  forget  yourself,"  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause.  "  I  excuse  you,  of  course,  I  don't  even  know 
what  you  are  talking  about !" 

"Yes,  you  do,  you  black-hearted  scoundrel. 
You  interfered  between  Hetty  Armitage  and  me  be 
cause  you  want  her  yourself — she  told  me  so  much 
to-night !" 

"  She  told  you !— it's  you  who  lie." 

"She  told  me — so  much  for  your  pretended 
virtue.  Get  out  of  the  way,  or  I'll  strike  you  to 
the  earth,  you  dog !" 

Frere's  wild  passion  prevented  Awdrey's  rising. 

The  accusation  made  against  him  was  so  pre 
posterous  that  it  did  not  even  rouse  his  anger. 

/'I'm  sorry  for  you," he  said  after  a  pause,  "you 
labor  under  a  complete  misapprehension.  I  wish 
to  protect  Hetty  Armitage  as  I  would  any  other 
honest  girl.  Keep  out  of  my  path  now,  sir,  I  wish 
to  continue  my  walk." 

"By  Heaven,  that  you  never  shall." 

Frere  uttered  a  wild,  maniacal  scream.  The 
next  instant  he  had  closed  with  Awdrey,  and  rais 
ing  a  heavy  cane  which  he  carried,  aimed  it  full 
at  the  young  Squire's  head. 


33  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"I  could  kill  you,  you  brute,  you  scoundrel,  you 
low,  base  seducer,"  he  sliouted. 

For  a  moment  Awdrey  was  taken  off  his  guard. 
But  the  next  instant  the  fierce  blood  of  his  race 
awoke  within  him.  Frere  was  no  mean  antagonist 
— he  was  a  stouter,  heavier,  older  man  than 
Awdrey.  He  had  also  the  strength  which  mad 
ness  confers.  After  a  momentary  struggle  he  flung 
Awdrey  to  the  ground.  The  two  young  men  rolled 
over  together.  Then  with  a  quick  and  sudden 
movement  Awdrey  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  had  no 
weapon  to  defend  himself  with  but  a  slight  stick 
which  he  carried.  Frere  let  him  go  for  a  moment 
to  spring  upon  him  again  like  a  tiger.  A  sudden 
memory  came  to  Awdrey's  aid — a  memory  which 
was  to  be  the  undoing  of  his  entire  life.  He  had 
been  told  in  his  boyhood  by  an  old  prize-fighter 
who  taught  him  boxing,  that  the  most  effective  way 
to  use  a  stick  in  defending  himself  from  an  enemy 
was  to  use  it  as  a  bayonet. 

"Prod  your  foe  in  the  mouth,"  old  Jim  had  said 
• — "be  he  dog  or  man,  prod  him  in  the  mouth. 
Grasp  your  stick  in  both  hands,  and  when  he 
comes  to  you,  prod  him  in  the  mouth  or  neck." 

The  words  flashed  distinctly  now  through 
Awdrey's  brain.  "When  Frere  raised  his  heavy 
stick  to  strike  him  he  grasped  his  own  slender 
weapon  and  rushed  forward.  He  aimed  full  at 
Frere' s  open  mouth.  The  stick  went  a  few  inches 
higher  and  entered  the  unfortunate  man's  right 
eye,  He  fell  with  a  sudden  groan  to  the  ground. 


DR.  EVM3EY'S  PATIENT.  33 

In  a  moment  Awdrey's  passion  was  over.  He 
bent  over  the  prostrate  man  and  examined  the 
wound  which  he  had  made.  Frere  lay  perfectly 
quiet ;  there  was  an  awful  silence  about  him.  The 
dark  shadows  of  the  night  brooded  heavily  over 
the  place.  Awdrey  did  not  for  several  moments 
realize  that  something  very  like  a  murder  had  been 
committed.  He  bent  over  the  prostrate  man — he 
took  his  limp  hand  in  his,  felt  for  a  pulse — there 
was  none.  With  trembling  fingers  he  tore  open 
the  coat  and  pressed  his  hand  to  the  heart — it  was 
strangely  still.  He  bent  his  ear  to  listen — there 
was  no  sound.  Awdrey  was  scarcely  frightened 
yet.  He  did  not  even  now  in  the  least  realize 
what  had  happened.  He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  a 
flask  of  brandy  which  he  sometimes  carried  about 
with  him.  An  oath  escaped  his  lips  when  he 
found  he  had  forgotten  it.  Then  taking  up  his 
stick  he  felt  softly  across  the  point.  The  point  of 
the  stick  was  wet — wet  with  blood.  He  felt  care 
fully  along  its  edge.  The  blood  extended  up  a 
cou,ple  of  inches.  He  knew  then  what  had  hap 
pened.  The  stick  had  undoubtedly  entered  Frere 's 
brain  through  the  eye,  causing  instant  death. 

When  ths  knowledge  came  to  Awdrey  he  laughed. 
His  laugh  sounded  queer,  but  he  did  not  notice  its 
strangeness.  He  felt  again  in  his  pocket — dis 
covered  a  box  of  matches  which  he  pulled  out 
eagerly.  He  struck  a  match,  and  by  the  weird, 
uncertain  light  which  it  cast  looked  for  an  instant 
at  the  dead  face  of  the  man  whose  life  lie  had  taken, 
I 


84  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"I  don't  even  know  his  name,"  thought  Awdrey. 
"What  in  the  world  have  I  killed  him  for?  Yes, 
undoubtedly  I've  killed  him.  He  is  dead,  poor 
fellow,  as  a  door-nail.  What  did  I  do  it  for?" 

He  struck  another  match,  and  looked  at  the  end 
of  his  stick.  The  stick  had  a  narrow  steel  ferrule 
at  the  point.  Blood  bespattered  the  end  of  the 
stick. 

"  I  must  bury  this  witness,"  said  Awdrey  to  him 
self. 

He  blew  out  the  match,  and  began  to  move  grop 
ingly  across  the  plain.  His  step  was  uncertain. 
He  stooped  as  he  walked.  Presently  he  came  to 
a  great  copse  of  underwood.  Into  the  very  thick 
of  the  underwood  he  thrust  his  stick. 

Having  done  this,  he  resolved  to  go  home. 
Queer  noises  were  ringing  in  his  head.  He  felt  as 
if  devils  were  pursuing  him.  He  was  certain  that 
if  he  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  in  front  of  him, 
he  must  see  the  ghost  of  the  dead  man.  It  was 
early  in  the  night,  not  yet  twelve  o'clock.  As  he 
entered  the  grounds  of  the  Court,  the  stable  clock 
struck  twelve. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  get  into  a  beastly  mess  about 
this,"  thought  Awdrey.  "I  never  meant  to  kill 
that  poor  fellow.  I  ran  at  him  in  self-defence. 
He'd  have  had  my  blood  if  I  hadn't  his.  Shall  I 
see  my  father  about  it  now?  My  father  is  a  mag 
istrate;  he'll  know  what's  best  to  be  done." 

Awdrey  walked  up  to  the  house.  His  gait  was 
uncertain  and  shambling,  so  little  characteristic  of 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  35 

him  that  if  any  one  had  met  him  in  the  dark  he 
would  not  have  been  recognized.  He  opened  one 
of  the  side  doors  of  the  great  mansion  with  a  latch 
key.  The  Awdreys  were  early  people — an  orderly 
household  who  went  to  roost  in  good  time — the 
lamps  were  out  in  the  house — only  here  and  there 
was  a  dim  illumination  suited  to  the  hours  of  dark 
ness.  Awdrey  did  not  meet  a  soul  as  he  went  up 
some  stairs,  and  down  one  or  two  corridors  to  his 
own  cheerful  bedroom.  He  paused  as  he  turned 
the  handle  of  his  door. 

"My  father  is  in  bed.  There's  no  use  in 
troubling  him  about  this  horrid  matter  before  the 
morning,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  of  his  room,  and  went 
in. 

To  his  surprise  he  saw  on  the  threshold,  just 
inside  the  door,  a  little  note.  He  picked  it  up  and 
opened  it. 

It  was  from  his  sister  Ann.    It  ran  as  follows : 


"DEAKEST  BOB. — I  have  seen  the  Cuthberts,  and 
they  can  join  us  on  the  plain  to-morrow  for  a  pic 
nic.  As  you  have  gone  early  to  bed,  I  thought  I'd 
let  you  know  in  case  you  choose  to  get  up  at  cock 
crow,  and  perhaps  leave  us  for  the  day.  Don't 
forget  that  we  start  at  two  o'clock,  and  that  Mar 
garet  will  be  there.  Your  loving  sister,  ANN." 


Awdrey  found  himself  reading  the  note  with  in 
terest.    The  excited  beating  of  his  heart  cooled 


36  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

down.     He  sank  into  a  chair,  took  off  his  cap, 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow. 

"I  wouldn't  miss  Margaret  for  the  world,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

A  look  of  pleasure  filled  his  dark  gray  eyes.  A 
moment  or  two  later  he  was  in  bed,  and  sound 
asleep.  He  awoke  at  his  usual  hour  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  rose  and  dressed  calmly.  He  had  for 
gotten  all  about  the  murder  —  the  doom  of  hi* 
house  had  fallen  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  1  WISH  you  would  tell  me  about  him,  Mr.  Aw* 
drey,"  said  Margaret  Douglas. 

She  was  a  handsome  girl,  tall  and  slightly  made 
— her  eyes  were  black  as  night,  her  hair  had  a  ra 
ven  hue,  her  complexion  was  a  pure  olive.  She 
was  standing  a  little  apart  from  a  laughing,  chat 
tering  group  of  boys  and  girls,  young  men  and 
young  ladies,  with  a  respectable  sprinkling  of 
fathers  and  mothers,  uncles  and  aunts.  Awdrey 
stood  a  foot  or  two  away  from  her — his  face  was 
pale,  he  looked  subdued  and  gentle. 

"  What  can  I  tell  you?"  he  asked. 

u  You  said  you  met  him  last  night,  poor  fellow. 
The  whole  thing  seems  so  horrible,  and  to  think  of 
it  happening  on  this  very  plain,  just  where  we  are 
having  our  picnic.  If  I  had  known  it,  I  would 
not  have  come." 

"The  murder  took  place  several  miles  from 
here,"  said  Awdrey.  "Quite  close  to  the  Court, 
in  fact.  I've  been  over  the  ground  this  morning 
with  my  father  and  one  of  the  keepers.  The  body 
was  removed  before  we  came." 

"Didn't  it  shock  you  very  much?" 
W 


38  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

u  Yes ;  I  am  sorry  for  that  unfortunate  Everett. " 

"Who  is  Le?    I  have  not  heard  of  him." 

"He  is  the  man  whom  they  think  must  have 
done  it.  There  is  certainly  very  grave  circum 
stantial  evidence  against  him.  He  and  Frere  were 
heard  quarrelling  last  night,  and  Armitage  can 
prove  that  Everett  did  not  return  home  until  about 
two  in  the  morning.  When  he  went  out  he  said  he 
was  going  to  follow  Frere,  who  had  gone  away  in 
a  very  excited  state  of  mind. 

"What  about,  I  wonder?" 

"The  usual  thing,"  said  Awdrey,  giving  Mar 
garet  a  quick  look,  under  which  she  lowered  her 
eyes  and  faintly  blushed. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "I 
am  interested — it  is  such  a  tragedy." 

"It  is;  it  is  awful.  Sit  down  here,  won't  you, 
or  shall  we  walk  on  a  little  way?  We  shall  soon 
get  into  shelter  if  we  go  down  this  valley  and  get 
under  those  trees  yonder." 

"Come  then,"  said  Margaret. 

She  went  first,  her  companion  followed  her.  He 
looked  at  her  many  times  as  she  walked  on  in  front 
of  him.  Her  figure  was  full  of  supple  and  easy 
grace,  her  young  steps  seemed  to  speak  the  very 
essence  of  youth  and  springtime.  She  appeared 
scarcely  to  touch  the  ground  as  she  walked  over  it ; 
once  she  turned,  and  the  full  light  of  her  dark  eyes 
made  Awdrey 's  heart  leap.  Presently  she  reached 
the  shadow  caused  by  a  copse  of  young  trees,  and 
stood  still  until  the  Squire  came  up  to  her. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  39 

"Here's  a  throne  for  you,  Miss  Douglas.  Do 
you  see  where  this  tree  extends  two  friendly  arms? 
Do  you  observe  a  seat  inlaid  with  moss?  Take 
your  throne." 

She  did  so  immediately  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  smile. 

"The  throne  suits  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  down — her  lips  faintly  trembled — 
then  she  raised  her  eyes. 

"Why  are  you  so  pale?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  can't  quite  tell  you,"  she  replied,  "except 
that  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  the  day,  and 
the  summer  feeling  which  pervades  the  air,  I  can't 
get  rid  of  a  sort  of  fear.  It  may  be  superstitious 
of  me,  but  I  think  it  is  unlucky  to  have  a  picnic 
on  the  very  plain  where  a  murder  was  committed." 

"  You  forget  over  what  a  wide  extent  the  plain 
extends,"  said  Awdrey ;  "but  if  I  had  known" — he 
stopped  and  bit  his  lips. 

"If ever  mind,"  she  answered,  endeavoring  to 
smile  and  look  cheerful,  "  any  sort  of  tragedy  al 
ways  affects  me  to  a  remarkable  degree.  I  can't 
help  it — I'm  afraid  there  is  something  in  me  akin 
to  trouble,  but  of  course  it  would  be  folly  for  us  to 
stay  indoors  just  because  that  poor  young  fellow 
came  to  a  violent  end  some  miles  away." 

"Yes,  it  is  quite  some  miles  from  here — I  am 
truly  sorry  for  him." 

"  Sit  down  here,  Mr.  Awdrey,  here  at  my  feet  if 
you  like,  and  tell  me  about  it." 

"  I  will  sit  at  your  feet  with  all  the  pleasure  in 


40  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

the  world,  but  why  should  we  talk  any  more  OB 
this  gruesome  subject?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Margaret,  "if  I  am  to  get 
rid  of  it,  I  must  know  all  about  it.  You  said  you 
met  him  last  night?" 

"I  did,"  said  Awdrey,  speaking  with  unwilling 
ness. 

"And  you  guess  why  he  came  by  his  end?" 

"Partly,  but  not  wholly." 

"Well,  do  tell  me." 

"  I  will — I'll  put  it  in  as  few  words  as  possible. 
You  know  that  little  witch  Hetty,  the  pretty  niece 
of  the  innkeeper  Armitage?" 

u  Hetty  Armitage — of  course  I  know  her.  I  tried 
to  get  her  into  my  Sunday  class,  but  she  wouldn't 
come." 

"  She's  a  silly  little  creature,"  said  Awdrey. 

"She  is  a  very  beautiful  little  creature,"  cor 
rected  Miss  Douglas. 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  her  beauty  was  too  much  for 
this  unfortunate  Frere's  sanity.  I  came  across  him 
last  night,  or  rather  they  passed  me  by  in  the  un 
derwood,  enacting  a  love  scene.  The  fact  is,  he 
was  kissing  her.  I  thought  he  was  taking  a  liber 
ty  and  interfered.  He  told  me  he  intended  to  mary 
her — but  Hetty  denied  it.  I  saw  her  back  to  the 
Inn — she  was  very  silent  and  depressed.  Another 
man,  a  handsome  fellow,  was  standing  in  the  porch. 
It  just  occurred  to  me  at  the  time,  that  perhaps  he 
also  was  a  suitor  for  her  hand,  and  might  be  the 
favored  one.  She  went  indoors.  On  my  way 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  41 

home  I  met  Frere  again.  He  tried  to  pick  a  quar 
rel  with  me,  which  of  course  I  nipped  in  the  bud. 
He  referred  to  his  firm  intention  of  marrying 
Hetty  Armitage,  and  when  I  told  him  that  she 
had  denied  the  engagement,  he  said  he  would  go 
back  at  once  and  speak  to  her.  I  then  returned 
to  the  Court. 

"  The  first  thing  I  heard  this  morning  was  the 
news  of  the  murder.  My  father  as  magistrate  was 
of  course  mado  acquainted  with  the  fact  at  a  very 
early  hour.  Poor  Everett  has  been  arrested  on 
suspicion,  and  there's  to  be  a  coroner's  inquest 
to-morrow.  That  is  the  entire  story  as  far  as  I 
know  anything  about  it.  Your  face  is  whiter 
than  ever,  Miss  Douglas.  Now  keep  your  word 
— forget  it,  since  you  have  heard  all  the  facts  of 
the  case." 

She  looked  down  again.  Presently  she  raised 
her  eyes,  brimful  of  tears,  to  his  face. 

"I  cannot  forget  it,"  she  said.  "That  poor 
young  fellow — such  a  fearfully  sudden  end,  and 
that  other  poor  fellow ;  surely  if  he  did  take  away 
a  life  ii  must  have  been  in  a  moment  of  terrible 
madness?" 

"That  is  true,"  said  Awdrey. 

"They  cannot  possibly  convict  nim  of  murder, 
can  they?" 

"  My  father  thinks  that  the  verdict  will  be  man 
slaughter,  or,  at  the  worst,  murder  under  strong 
provocation;  but  it  is  impossible  to  tell." 

Awdrey  looked  again  anxiously  at  his  compan- 


43  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

ion.  Her  pallor  and  distress  aroused  emotion  in 
his  breast  which  he  found  almost  impossible  to 
quiet. 

"I'm  sorry  to  my  heart  that  you  know  about 
this,"  he  said.  "You  are  not  fit  to  stand  any  of 
the  roughness  of  life." 

"What  folly!"  she  answered,  with  passion. 
"What  am  I  that  I  should  accept  the  smooth 
and  reject  the  rough?  I  tell  you  what  I  would  like 
to  do.  I'd  like  to  go  this  very  moment  to  see  that 
poor  Mr.  Everett,  in  order  to  tell  him  how  deeply 
sorry  I  am  for  him.  To  ask  him  to  tell  me  the 
story  from  first  to  last,  from  his  point  of  view.  To 
clear  him  from  this  awful  stain.  And  I'd  like  to 
lay  flowers  over  the  breast  of  that  dead  boy.  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  it.  Why  is  the  world  so  full  of  trou 
ble  and  pain?" 

She  burst  into  sudden  tears. 

"Don't,  don't!  Oh!  Margaret,  you're  an  angel. 
You're  too  good  for  this  rarth,"  said  Awdrey. 

"Nonsense,"  she  ans^^ped;  "let  me  have  my 
cry  out;  I'll  be  all  right  ma  minute." 

Her  brief  tears  were  quickly  over.  She  dashed 
them  aside  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  hear  the  children  shouting  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  in  no  humor  to  meet  them.  Where  shall  we 
go?" 

"This  way,"  said  Awdrey  quickly;  "no  one 
knows  the  way  through  this  copse  but  -Tie." 

He  gave  her  his  hand,  pushed  aside  the  trees, 
and  they  soon  found  themselves  ia  a  dim  little 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  48 

world  of  soft  green  twilight.  There  was  a  narrow 
path  on  which  they  could  not  walk  abreast.  Aw- 
drey  now  t  ok  the  lead,  Margaret  following  him. 
After  walking  Tor  half  a  mile  the  wood  grew  thin* 
ner,  and  they  found  themselves  far  away  from 
their  compani  ns,  and  on  a  part  of  the  plain  which 
was  quite  new  ground  to  Margaret. 

"How  lovely  and  enchanting  it  is  here,"  she 
said,  giving  a  low  laugh  ->f  pleasure. 

"I  am  lad  you  like  it,"  said  Awdrey.  "I  dis 
covered  "hat  path  to  these  heights  only  a  week 
ago.  I  never  told  a  soul  about  it.  For  all  you 
can  tell  your  feet  may  now  be  treading  on  virgin 
ground." 

As  Awdrey  spoke  he  panted  slightly,  and  put 
his  h^nd  to  his  brow. 

"Is  anything  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  Mar 
garet. 

"Nothing;  I  was  never  better  in  my  life." 

"You  don't  look  well;  you're  changed." 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  answered,  a  faint  ring  of 
anxiety  in  his  voice. 

She  gazed  at  him  earnestly. 

"  You  are,"  she  repeated.  "I  don't  quite  recog 
nize  the  expression  in  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  replied,  "only " 

"Only  what?    Do  tell  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  revert  to  that  terrible  tragedy 
again,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "There  is  some 
thing,  however,  in  connection  with  it  which  sur 
prises  myself." 


44  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"What  is  that?" 

*  I  don't  seem  to  feel  the  horror  of  it.  I  feel 
everything  else;  your  sorrow,  for  instance — the 
beauty  of  the  day— the  gladness  and  fulness  of  life, 
but  I  don't  feel  any  special  pang  about  that  poor 
dead  fellow.  It's  queer,  is  it  not?" 

"No,"  said  Margaret  tenderly.  "I  know — I 
quite  understand  your  sensation.  You  don't  feel 
it  simply  because  you  feel  it  too  much — you  are 
slightly  stunned." 

"Yes,  you're  right — we'll  not  talk  about  it  any 
more.  Let  us  stay  here  f  r  a  little  while." 

"  Tell  me  over  r.gain  the  preparations  for  your 
coming  of  age." 

Margaret  seated  herself  on  the  grass  as  she 
spoke.  Her  white  dress — her  slim  young  figure — 
a  sort  of  spiritual  light  in  her  dark  oy3s,  gave  her 
at  that  moment  an  unearthly  radiance  in  the  eyes 
of  the  man  who  loved  her.  All  of  a  sudden,  with 
an  impulse  he  could  not  withstand,  he  resolved  to 
put  his  fortunes  to  the  test. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  emotion  trembling  in  his 
voice — "  I  can  only  speak  of  one  thing  at  this  mo 
ment." 

He  dropped  lightly  on  one  knee  beside  her.  She 
did  not  ask  him  what  it  was.  She  looked  down. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  am  going  to 
eay,"  he  continued;  "you  know  what  I  want  most 
when  I  come  of  age — I  want  my  wife — I  want  you. 
Margaret,  you  must  have  guessed  my  secret  long 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  45 

She  did  not  answer  him  for  nearly  a  minute — 
then  she  softly  and  timidly  stretched  out  one  of 
her  hands — he  grasped  it  in  his. 

"  You  have  guessed — you  do  know — you're  not 
astonished  nor  shocked  at  my  words?" 

"Your  secret  was  mine,  too,"  she  answered  in  a 
whisper. 

"  You  will  marry  me,  Margaret — you'll  make  me 
the  happiest  of  men?" 

"I  will  be  your  wife  if  you  wish  it,  Kobert,"  she 
replied. 

She  stood  up  as  she  spoke.  She  was  tall,  but  he 
was  a  little  taller — he  put  his  arms  round  her, 
drew  her  close  to  him,  and  kissed  her  passion 
ately. 

Half-an-hour  afterward  they  left  the  woods  side 
by  side. 

"Don't  tell  anybody  to-day,"  said  Margaret. 

"  Why  not?  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  keep  it  to 
myself  even  for  an  hour  longer." 

"Still,  humor  me,  Kobert;  remember  I  am  su 
perstitious." 

"What  about?" 

"I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it — I  would  rather 
that  our  engagement  was  not  known  until  the  day 
of  the  murder  has  gone  by." 


CHAPTER  V. 

MARGARET  DOUGLAS  lived  with  her  cousins,  the 
Cuthberts.  Sir  John  Cuthbert  was  the  Squire  of 
a  parish  at  a  little  distance  from  Grandcourt.  He 
was  a  wealthy  man  and  was  much  thought  of  in 
his  neighborhood.  Margaret  was  the  daughter  of 
a  sister  who  had  died  many  years  ago — she  was 
poor,  but  this  fact  did  not  prevent  the  county  as 
signing  her  a  long  time  ago  to  Eobert  Awdrey  as 
his  future  wife.  The  attachment  between  the  pair 
had  been  the  growth  of  years.  They  had  spent 
their  holidays  together,  and  had  grown  up  to  a 
great  extent  in  each  other's  company — it  had  never 
entered  into  the  thoughts  of  either  to  love  any  one 
else.  Awdrey,  true  to  his  promise  to  Margaret, 
said  nothing  about  his  engagement,  but  the  secret 
was  after  all  an  open  one.  When  the  young  cou 
ple  appeared  again  among  the  rest  of  Sir  John 
Cuthbert' s  guests,  they  encountered  more  than  one 
significant  glance,  and  Lady  Cuthbert  even  went 
to  the  length  of  kissing  Margaret  with  much  fervor 
in  Awdrey' s  presence. 

"You  must  come  back  with  us  to  Cuthbertstowu 
to  supper,"  she  said  to  the  young  Squire. 

tt 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  47 

"Yes,  come,  Robert,"  said  Margaret,  with  a 
smile. 

He  found  it  impossible  to  resist  the  invitation  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  late,  therefore,  night,  in  fact, 
when  he  started  to  walk  back  to  Grandcourt.  He 
felt  intensely  happy  as  he  walked.  He  had  much 
reason  for  this  happiness — had  he  not  just  won  the 
greatest  desire  of  his  life?  There  was  nothing  to 
prevent  the  wedding  taking  place  almost  imme 
diately.  As  he  strode  quickly  over  the  beautiful 
summer  landscape  he  was  already  planning  the 
golden  future  which  lay  before  him.  He  would 
live  in  London,  he  would  cultivate  the  considerable 
abilities  which  he  undoubtedly  possessed.  He 
would  lead  an  active,  energetic,  and  worthy  life. 
Margaret  already  shared  all  his  ambitions.  She 
would  encourage  him  to  be  a  man  in  every  sense  of 
the  word.  How  lucky  he  was — how  kind  fate  was 
to  him !  Why  were  the  things  of  life  so  unevenly 
divided?  Why  was  one  man  lifted  to  a  giddy  pin 
nacle  of  joy  and  another  hurled  into  an  abyss  of 
despair?  How  happy  he  was  that  evening — 
whereas  Everett — he  paused  in  his  quick  walk  as 
the  thought  of  Everett  flashed  before  his  mind's 
eye.  He  didn't  know  the  unfortunate  man  who 
was  now  awaiting  the  coroner's  inquest,  charged 
with  the  terrible  crime  of  murder,  but  he  had  seen 
him  twenty-four  hours  ago.  Everett  had  looked 
jolly  and  good-tempered,  handsome  and  strong,  as 
he  stood  in  the  porch  of  the  pretty  little  inn,  and 
smoked  his  pipe  and  looked  at  Hetty  when  Awdrey 


48  DR.  RUMSEY'8  PATIENT. 

brought  her  home.  Now  a  terrible  and  black  doom 
was  overshadowing  him.  Awdrey  could  not  help 
feeling  deeply  interested  in  the  unfortunate  man. 
He  was  young  like  himself.  Perhaps  he,  too,  had 
dreamed  dreams,  and  been  full  of  ambition,  and 
perhaps  he  loved  a  girl,  and  thought  of  making  her 
his  wife.  Perhaps  Hetty  was  the  girl — if  so — Aw 
drey  stamped  his  foot  with  impatience. 

"What  mischief  some  women  do,"  he  muttered; 
"  what  a  difference  there  is  between  one  woman  and 
another.  Who  would  suppose  that  Margaret 
Douglas  and  Hetty  Armitage  belonged  to  the  same 
race?  Poor  Frere,  how  madly  in  love  he  was  with 
that  handsome  little  creature !  How  little  she  cared 
for  the  passion  which  she  had  evoked.  I  hope  she 
won't  come  in  my  path;  I  should  like  to  give  her 
a  piece  of  my  mind. 

This  thought  had  scarcely  rushed  through  Aw 
drey 's  brain  before  he  was  attracted  by  a  sound  in 
the  hedge  close  by,  and  Hetty  herself  stood  before 
him. 

"  I  thought  you  would  come  back  this  way,  Mr. 
Kobert,"  she  said.  "  I've  waited  here  by  the  hedge 
for  a  long  time  on  purpose  to  see  you." 

The  Squire  choked  down  a  sound  of  indignation 
— the  hot  color  rushed  to  his  cheeks — it  was  with 
difficulty  he  could  keep  back  his  angry  words. 
One  glance,  however,  at  Hettj^'s  face  caused  his 
anger  to  fade.  The  lovely  little  face  was  so  com 
pletely  changed  that  he  found  some  difficulty  in 
recognizing  it.  Hetty's  pretty  figure  had  always 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  49 

been  the  perfection  of  trim  neatness.  No  London 
belle  could  wear  her  expensive  dresses  more  neatly 
nor  more  becomingly.  Her  simple  print  frocks 
fitted  her  rounded  figure  like  a  glove.  The  roses 
on  her  cheeks  spoke  the  perfection  of  perfect 
health;  her  clear  dark  eyes  were  wont  to  be  as 
open  and  untroubled  as  a  child's.  Her  wealth  of 
coal-black  hair  was  always  neatly  coiled  round  her 
shapely  head.  Now,  all  was  changed,  the  pretty 
eyes  were  scarcely  visible  between  their  swollen 
lids — the  face  was  ghastly  pale  in  parts — blotched 
with  ugly  red  marks  in  others ;  there  were  great 
black  shadows  under  the  eyes,  the  lips  were 
parched  and  dry,  they  drooped  wearily  as  if  in  ut 
ter  despair.  The  hair  was  untidy,  and  one  great 
coil  had  altogether  escaped  its  bondage,  and  hung 
recklessly  over  the  girl's  neck  and  bosom.  Her 
cotton  dress  was  rumpled  and  stained,  and  the 
belt  with  which  she  had  hastily  fastened  it  togeth 
er,  was  kept  in  its  place  by  a  large  pin. 

Being  a  man,  Awdrey  did  not  notice  all  these 
details,  but  the  tout  ensemble,  the  abject  depression 
of  intense  grief,  struck  him  with  a  sudden  pang. 

"After  all,  the  little  thing  loved  that  poor  fel 
low,"  he  said  to  himself;  "she  was  a  little  fool  to 
trifle  with  him,  but  the  fact  that  she  loved  him  al 
ters  the  complexion  of  affairs." 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  said,  speaking  in 
a  gentle  and  compassionate  voice. 

"  I  have  waited  to  tell  you  something  for  nearly 
two  hours,  Mr.  Robert" 
4 


50  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?  If  you  wanted  to  say  any 
thing  to  me,  you  could  have  come  to  the  Court,  or 
I'd  have  called  at  the  Inn.  What  is  it  you  want  to 
say?" 

"  I  could  not  come  to  the  Court,  sir,  and  I  could 
not  send  you  a  message,  because  no  one  must 
know  that  we  have  met.  I  came  out  here  unknown 
to  any  one ;  I  saw  you  go  home  from  Cuthberte- 
town  with  Miss  Douglas."  Here  Hetty  choked 
down  a  sob.  "  I  waited  by  the  hedge,  for  I  knew 
you  must  pass  back  this  way.  I  wished  to  say, 
Mr.  Robert,  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  whatever  happens, 
however  matters  turn  out,  I'll  be  true  to  you. 
No  one  shall  get  a  word  out  of  me.  They  say  it's 
awful  to  be  cross-examined,  but  I'll  be  true.  I 
thought  I'd  let  you  know,  Mr.  Awdrey.  To  my 
dying  day  I'll  never  let  out  a  word — you  need 
have  no  fear." 

"I  need  have  no  fear,"  said  Awdrey,  in  absolute 
astonishment.  "What  in  the  world  do  you  mean? 
What  are  you  talking  about?" 

Hetty  looked  full  up  into  the  Squire's  face.  The 
unconscious  and  unembarrassed  gaze  with  which 
he  returned  her  look  evidently  took  her  breath 
away. 

"I  made  a  mistake,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  " I 
see  that  I  made  a  mistake.  I'd  rather  not  say 
what  I  came  to  say." 

a  But  you  must  say  it,  Hetty ;  you  have  some 
thing  more  to  tell  me,  or  you  wouldn't  have  taken 
oil  this  trouble  to  wait  by  the  roadside  on  the 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  51 

chance  of  my  passing.  What  is  it?  Out  with  it 
now,  like  a  good  girl." 

"  May  I  walk  along  a  little  bit  with  you,  Mr. 
Sober*?" 

"  You  may  as  far  as  the  next  corner.  There  our 
roads  part,  and  you  must  go  home." 

Hetty  shivered.  She  gave  the  Squire  another 
furtive  and  undecided  glance. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him?"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

Awdrey  glanced  at  her,  and  spoke  impatiently. 

"Come,  Hetty;  remember  I'm  waiting  to  hear 
your  story.  Out  with  it  now,  be  quick  about  it." 

"I  was  out  last  night,  sir." 

"You  were  out — when?  Not  after  I  saw  you 
home?" 

"  Yes,  sir. "  Hetty  choked  again.  "  It  was  after 
ten  o'clock." 

"  You  did  very  wrong.    Were  you  out  alone?" 

"Y§s,  sir.  I — I  followed  Mr.  Frere  on  to  the 
Plain." 

"  You  did?"  said  Awdrey.  a  Is  that  fact  known? 
Did  you  see  anything?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

B  Then  why  in  the  name  of  Heaven  didn't  you 
come  up  to  the  Court  this  morning  and  tell  my 
father.  Your  testimony  may  be  most  important. 
Think  of  the  position  of  that  poor  unfortunate 
young  Everett." 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  think  of  it." 

"What  do  you  mean,  girl?" 

"  Let  me  tell  you  my  story,  Mr.  Awdrey.    If  it 


66  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

is  nothing  to  you — it  is  nothing.  You  will  soon 
know  if  it  is  nothing  or  not.  I  had  a  quarrel  with 
Mr.  Frere  last  night.  Nobody  was  by ;  Mr.  Frere 
came  into  Aunt's  parlor  and  he  spoke  to  me  very 
angrily,  and  I — I  told  him  something  which  made 
him  wild." 

"What  was  that?" 

Hetty  gave  a  shy  glance  up  at  the  young  Squire; 
his  face  looked  hard,  his  lips  were  firmly  set.  He 
and  she  were  walking  on  the  same  road,  but  he 
kept  as  far  from  her  side  as  possible. 

"  I  will  not  tell  him — at  least  I  will  not  tell  him 
yet,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"I  think  I  won't  say,  sir,"  she  replied.  "What 
we  talked  about  was  Mr.  Frere's  business  and 
mine.  He  asked  me  if  I  loved  another  man  better 
than  him,  and  I— I  said  that  I  did,  sir." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  reflected  Awdrey;  "Ever 
ett  is  the  favored  one.  If  this  fact  is  known  it  will 
go  against  the  poor  fellow." 

"Well,  Hetty,"  he  interrupted,  "it's  my  duty 
to  tell  you  that  you  behaved  very  badly,  and  are 
in  a  great  measure  responsible  for  the  awful  trag 
edy  that  has  occurred.  There,  poor  child,  don't 
cry.  Heaven  knows,  I  don't  wish  to  add  to  your 
trouble ;  but  see,  we  have  reached  the  cross-roads 
where  we  are  to  part,  and  you  have  not  yet  told 
me  what  you  saw  when  you  went  out." 

"I  crept  out  of  my  bedroom  window,"  said 
Hetty.  "  Aunt  and  uncle  had  gone  to  bed.  I  can 
easily  get  out  of  the  window,  it  opens  right  on  the 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  53 

cow-house,  and  from  there  I  can  swing  myself  into 
the  laburnum-tree,  and  so  reach  the  ground.  I 
got  out,  and  followed  Mr.  Frere.  Presently  I  saw 
that  Mr.  Everett  was  also  out,  and  was  following 
him.  I  knew  every  yard  of  the  Plain  well,  far  bet 
ter  than  Mr.  Everett  did.  I  went  to  it  by  a  short 
cut  round  by  Sweetbriar  Lane — you  know  the 
part  there — not  far  from  the  Court.  I  had  no 
sooner  got  on  the  Plain  than  I  saw  Mr.  Frere— he 
was  running — I  thought  he  was  running  to  meet 
me— he  came  forward  by  leaps  and  bounds  very 
fast — suddenly  he  stumbled  and  fell.  I  wanted  to 
call  him,  but  my  voice,  sir,  it  wouldn't  rise,  it 
seemed  to  catch  in  my  throat.  I  couldn't  manage 
to  say  his  name.  All  of  a  sudden  the  moon  went 
down,  and  the  plain  was  all  gray  with  black  shad 
ows.  I  felt  frightened — awfully.  I  was  deter 
mined  to  get  to  Mr.  Frere.  I  stumbled  on — pres 
ently  I  fell  over  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  My  fall 
stunned  me  a  bit — when  I  rose  again  there  were 
two  men  on  the  Plain.  They  were  standing  facing 
each  other.  Oh,  Mr.  Awdrey,  I  don't  think  I'll 
say  any  more." 

"Not  say  any  more?  You  certainly  must,  girl," 
cried  Awdrey,  his  face  blazing  with  excitement. 
"  You  saw  two  men  facing  each  other — Frere  and 
Everett,  no  doubt." 

Hetty  was  silent.  After  a  moment,  during  which 
her  heart  beat  loudly,  she  continued  to  speak  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

"  It  was  so  dark  that  the  men  looked  like  shad- 


54  DR.  EUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

ows.  Presently  I  heard  them  talking — they  were 
quarrelling.  All  of  a  sudden  they  sprang  together 
like — like  tigers,  and  they — fought.  I  heard  the 
sound  of  blows — one  of  them  fell,  the  taller  one — 
he  got  on  to  his  feet  in  a  minute :  they  fought  a 
second  time,  then  one  gave  a  cry,  a  very  sharp, 
sudden  cry,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  a  body 
falling  with  a  thud  on  the  ground — afterward,  si 
lence — not  a  sound.  I  crept  behind  the  furze  bush. 
I  was  quite  stunned.  After  a  long  time — at  least 
it  seemed  a  long  time  to  me — one  of  the  men  went 
away,  and  the  other  man  lay  on  his  back  with  hia 
face  turned  up  to  the  sky.  The  man  who  had 
killed  him  turned  in  the  direction  of " 

"  In  what  direction?"  asked  Awdrey. 

"In  the  direction  of "  Hetty  looked  full  up 

at  the  Squire;  the  Squire's  eyes  met  hers.  "The 
town,  sir."  . 

"Oh,  the  town,"  said  Awdrey,  giving  vent  to  a 
short  laugh.  "  From  the  way  you  looked  at  me, 
I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  The  Court." 

"Sir,  Mr.  Kobert,  do  you  think  it  was  Mr. 
Everett?" 

"Who  else  could  it  have  been?"  replied  Awdrey. 

"Very  well,  sir,  I'll  hold  to  that.  Who  else 
could  it  have  been?  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  Mr. 
Awdrey.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know  that  I'd 
hold  to  that.  When  the  steps  of  the  murderer  died 
away,  I  stole  back  to  Mr.  Frere,  and  I  tried  to 
bring  him  back  to  life,  but  he  was  as  dead  as  a 
stone.  I  left  him  and  I  went  home.  I  got  back  to 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  65 

my  room  about  four  in  the  morning.  Not  a  soul 
knew  I  was  out;  no  one  knows  it  now  but  you,  sir. 
I  thought  I'd  come  and  tell  you,  Mr.  Kobert,  that 
I'd  hold  to  the  story  that  it  was  Mr.  Everett  who 
committed  the  murder.  Good-night,  sir." 

*  Good-night,  Hetty.  You'll  have  to  tell  my 
father  what  you  have  told  me,  in  the  morning." 

"Very  well,  sir,  if  you  wish  it." 

Hetty  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  toward 
the  village,  and  Awdrey  stood  where  the  four  roads 
met  and  watched  her.  For  a  moment  or  two  he 
was  lost  in  anxious  thought  —  then  he  turned 
quickly  and  walked  home.  He  entered  the  house 
by  the  same  side  entrance  by  which  he  had  come 
in  on  the  previous  night.  He  walked  down  a  long 
passage,  crossed  the  wide  front  hall,  and  entered 
the  drawing-room  where  his  sister  Ann  was  seated. 

"Is  that  you,  Bob?"  she  said,  jumping  up  when 
she  saw  him.  "  I'm  so  glad  to  have  you  all  to  my 
self.  Of  course,  you  were  too  busy  with  Margaret 
to  take  any  notice  of  us  all  day,  but  I've  been  dy 
ing  to  hear  your  account  of  that  awful  tragedy. 
Sit  here  like  a  dear  old  fellow  and  tell  me  the 
story." 

"Talk  of  women  and  their  tender  hearts,"  said 
Awdrey,  with  irritation. 

Then  the  memory  of  Margaret  came  over  him 
and  his  face  softened.  Margaret,  whose  heart  was 
quite  the  tenderest  thing  in  all  the  world,  had  also 
wished  to  hear  of  the  tragedy. 

aTo  tell  the  truth,  Ann,"  he  said,  sinking  into  a 


58  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

chair  by  Iris  sister's  side,  "  you  can  scarcely  ask 
me  to  discuss  a  more  uncongenial  theme.  Of 
course,  the  whole  thing  will  be  thoroughly  inves 
tigated,  and  the  local  papers  will  be  filled  with 
nothing  else  for  weeks  to  come.  Won't  that  con 
tent  you?  Must  I,  too,  go  into  this  painful  sub 
ject?" 

Ann  was  a  very  good-natured  girl. 

"Certainly  not,  dear  Bob,  if  it  worries  you," 
she  replied;  "but  just  answer  me  one  question. 
Is  it  true  that  you  met  the  unfortunate  man  last 
night?" 

"Quite  true.  I  did.  We  had  a  sort  of  quar 
rel." 

"Good  gracious!  Why,  Eobert,  if  you  had 
been  out  late  last  night  they  might  have  suspected 
you  of  the  murder." 

Awdrey's  face  reddened. 

"  As  it  happens,  I  went  to  bed  remarkably  early," 
he  said;  "at  least,  such  is  my  recollection."  As 
he  spoke  he  looked  at  his  sister  with  knitted 
brows. 

"Why,  of  course,  don't  you  remember,  you  said 
you  were  dead  beat.  Dorothy  and  I  wanted  you 
to  sing  with  us,  but  you  declared  you  were  as 
hoarse  as  a  raven,  and  went  off  to  your  bedroom 
immediately  after  supper.  For  my  part,  I  was  so 
afraid  of  disturbing  you  that  I  wouldn't  even  knock 
when  I  pushed  that  little  note  about  Margaret 
under  the  door." 

gave  her  brother  a  roguish  glance  when  aha 


DR.  EUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  57 

mentioned  Margaret's  name.  He  did  not  notice  it. 
He  was  thinking  deeply. 

"I  am  tired  to-night,  too,"  he  said.  "I  have  an 
extraordinary  feeling  in  the  back  of  my  head,  as  if 
it  were  numbed.  I  believe  I  want  more  sleep. 
This  horrid  affair  has  upset  me.  Well,  good 
night,  Ann,  I'm  off  to  bed  at  once." 

"But  supper  is  ready." 

"I  had  something  at  Cuthbertstown;  I  don't 
want  anything  more.  Good-night." 


CHAPTEE  VL 

HETTY  dragged  herself  wearily  home — she  had 
waited  to  see  the  young  Squire  in  a  state  of  intense 
and  rapt  excitement.  He  had  received  her  news 
with  marvellous  indifference.  The  excitement  he 
had  shown  was  the  ordinary  excitement  which  an 
outsider  might  feel  when  he  received  startling  and 
unlooked  for  tidings.  There  was  not  a  scrap  of 
personal  emotion  in  his  manner.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  murder  which 
he  himself  had  committed?  Hetty  was  not  a  na 
tive  of  Grandcourt  without  knowing  something  of 
the  tragedy  which  hung  over  the  Court.  Was  it 
possible  that  the  doom  of  the  house  had  really 
overtaken  Robert  Awdrey?  Hetty  with  her  own 
eyes  had  seen  him  kill  Horace  Frere.  Her  own 
eyes  could  surely  not  deceive  her.  She  rubbed 
them  now  in  her  bewilderment.  Yes,  she  had  seen 
the  murder  committed.  Without  any  doubt  Aw 
drey  was  the  man  who  had  struggled  with  Frere. 
Frere  had  thrown  him  to  the  ground ;  he  had  risen 
quickly  again.  Once  more  the  two  men  had  rushed 
at  each  other  like  tigers  eager  for  blood — there  had 
been  a  scuffle — a  fierce,  awful  wrestle.  A  wrestle 
which  had  been  followed  by  a  sudden  leap  forward 
on  the  part  of  the  young  Squire — he  had  used  his 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  69 

stick  as  men  use  bayonets  in  battle— there  had 
come  a  groan  from  Frere's  lips — he  had  staggered 
—his  body  had  fallen  to  the  ground  with  a  heavy 
thud — then  had  followed  an  awful  silence.  Yes, 
Hetty  had  seen  the  whole  thing.  She  had  watched 
the  terrible  transaction  from  beginning  to  end. 
After  he  had  thrown  his  man  to  the  ground  the 
Squire  had  struck  a  match,  and  had  looked  hard 
into  the  face  of  the  dead.  Hetty  had  seen  the  lu 
rid  light  flash  up  for  an  instant  on  the  Squire's 
face — it  had  looked  haggard  and  gray — like  the 
face  of  an  old  man.  She  had  watched  him  as  he 
examined  the  slender  stick  with  which  he  had 
killed  his  foe.  She  observed  him  then  creep  across 
the  Plain  to  a  copse  of  young  alders.  She  had 
seen  him  push  the  stick  out  of  sight  into  the  mid 
dle  of  the  alders— she  had  then  watched  him  as  he 
went  quickly  home.  Yes,  Robert  Awdrey  was  the 
guilty  man — Frank  Everett  was  innocent,  as  inno 
cent  as  a  babe.  All  day  long  Hetty's  head  had 
been  in  a  mad  whirl.  She  had  kept  her  terrible 
knowledge  to  herself.  Knowing  that  a  word  from 
her  could  save  him,  she  had  allowed  Everett  to  be 
arrested.  She  had  watched  him  from  behind  her 
window  when  the  police  came  to  the  house  for  the 
purpose,  she  had  seen  Everett  go  away  in  the  com 
pany  of  two  policemen.  He  was  a  square-built 
young  fellow  with  broad  shoulders — he  had  held 
himself  sturdily  as  an  Englishman  should,  when 
he  walked  off,  an  innocent  man,  to  meet  an  awful 
doom.  Hetty,  as  she  watched,  crushed  down  the 


60  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

cry  in  her  heart — it  had  clamored  to  save  this  man. 
There  was  a  louder  cry  there — a  fiercer  instinct. 
The  Squire  belonged  to  her  own  people — she  was 
like  a  subject,  and  he  was  her  king — to  the  people 
of  Grandcourt  the  king  could  do  nothing  wrong. 
They  were  old-fashioned  in  the  little  village,  and 
had  somewhat  the  feeling  of  serfs  to  their  feudal 
lord.  Hetty  shared  the  tradition  of  her  race.  But 
over  and  above  these  minor  matters,  the  unhappy 
girl  loved  Robert  Awdrey  with  a  fierce  passion. 
She  would  rather  die  herself  than  see  him  die. 
When  she  saw  Everett  arrested,  she  watched  the 
whole  proceeding  in  dull  amazement.  She  won 
dered  why  the  Squire  had  not  acted  a  man's  part. 
Why  did  he  not  deliver  himself  up  to  the  course  of 
justice?  He  had  killed  Frere  in  a  moment  of  mad 
passion.  Hetty's  heart  throbbed.  Could  that 
passion  have  been  evoked  on  her  account?  Of 
course,  he  would  own  to  his  sin.  He  had  not  done 
so;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  gone  to  a  picnic.  He 
had  been  seen  walking  about  with  the  young  lady 
whom  he  loved.  Did  Robert  Awdrey  really  love 
Margaret  Douglas? 

*  If  that  is  the  case,  why  should  not  I  give  him 
up?"  thought  Hetty.  "  He  cares  .nothing  for  me. 
I  am  less  than  the  thistle  under  his  feet.  Why 
should  I  save  him?  Why  should  Mr.  Everett  die 
because  of  him?  The  Squire  cares  nothing  for  me. 
Why  should  I  sin  on  his  account?" 

These  thoughts,  when  they  came  to  her,  were 
quickly  hurled  aside  by  others. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  61 

*  I'd  die  twenty  times  over  rather  than  he  should 
suffer,"  thought  the  girl.  "He  shan't  die,  he's 
my  king,  and  I'm  his  subject.  It  does  not  matter 
whether  he  loves  me  or  not,  he  shan't  die.  Yes, 
he  loves  that  beautiful  Miss  Douglas— she  belong! 
to  his  set,  and  she'll  be  his  wife.  Perhaps  she 
thinks  that  she  loves  him.  Oh,  oh !" 

Hetty  laughed  wildly  to  herself. 

"  After  all,  she  doesn't  know  what  real  love  is. 
She  little  guesses  what  I  feel;  she  little  guesses? 
that  I  hold  his  life  in  my  hands.  O  God,  keep 
me  from  going  mad  1" 

It  was  dark  when  Hetty  re-entered  the  Inn. 
The  taproom  was  the  scene  of  noisy  excitement. 
It  was  crowded  with  eager  and  interested  villagers. 
The  murder  was  the  one  and  only  topic  of  conver 
sation.  Armitage  was  busy  attending  to  his  nu 
merous  guests,  and  Mrs.  Armitage  kept  going 
backward  and  forward  between  the  taproom  and 
the  little  kitchen  at  the  back. 

When  she  saw  Hetty  she  called  out  to  her  in  a 
sharp  tone. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  girl?"  she  cried.  "Now 
just  look  here,  your  uncle  won't  have  you  stealing 
out  in  this  fashion  any  more.  You  are  to  stay  at 
home  when  it  is  dark.  Why,  it's  all  over  the 
place,  it's  in  every  one's  mouth,  that  you  have  been 
the  cause  of  the  murder.  You  encouraged  that 
poor  Mr.  Frere  with  your  idle,  flighty,  silly  ways 
and  looks,  and  then  you  played  fast  and  loose  with 
him.  Don't  you  know  that  this  is  just  the  thing 


88  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

that  will  ruin  us?    Yes,  you'll  be  the  ruin  of  u\ 
Hetty,  and  times  so  bad,  too.     When  are  we  likely 
to  have  parlor  lodgers  again?" 

"Oh,  Aunt,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  scold  me,"  an 
swered  Hetty.  She  sank  down  on  the  nearest 
chair,  pushed  her  hat  from  her  brow,  and  pressed 
her  hand  to  it. 

"Sakes,  child!"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  "you  do 
look  white  and  bad  to  be  sure." 

Mrs.  Armitage  stood  in  front  of  her  niece,  and 
eyed  her  with  a  critical  gaze. 

"It's  my  belief,  after  all,  that  you  really  cared 
for  the  poor  young  man,"  she  said.  "  For  all  your 
silly,  flighty  ways  you  gave  him  what  little  heart 
you  possess.  If  he  meant  honest  by  you,  you 
couldn't  have  done  better — they  say  he  had  lots  of 
money,  and  not  a  soul  to  think  of  but  himself.  I 
don't  know  how  your  uncle  is  to  provide  for  you. 
But  there,  you've  learned  your  lesson,  and  I  hopa 
you'll  never  forget  it." 

"Aunt  Fanny,  may  I  go  up-stairs  to  my  room?" 

u  Hoity  toity  I  nothing  of  the  kind.  You've  got 
to  work  for  your  living  like  the  rest  of  us.  Put  on 
your  apron  and  help  me  to  wash  up  the  dishes." 

Hetty  rose  wearily  from  her  chair.  The  body 
of  the  murdered  man  lay  out  straight  and  still  in 
the  little  front  parlor.  Many  people  had  been  in 
and  out  during  the  afternoon;  many  people  had 
gazed  solemnly  at  the  white  face.  The  doctor  had 
examined  the  wound  in  the  eye.  The  coroner  had 
come  to  view  the  dead.  All  was  in  readiness  for 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  63 

the  fnquest,  which  was  to  take  place  at  an  early 
hour  on  the  following  day.  No  one  as  yet  had 
wept  a  single  tear  over  the  dead  man.  Mrs.  Armi- 
tage  came  to  Hetty  now  and  asked  her  to  go  and 
fetch  something  out  of  the  parlor.  A  paper  which 
had  been  left  on  the  mantelpiece  was  wanted  by 
Armitage  in  a  hurry. 

"Go,  child,  be  quick!"  said  the  aunt.  "You'll 
find  the  paper  by  that  vase  of  flowers  on  the  man 
telpiece." 

Hetty  obeyed,  never  thinking  of  what  she  was  to 
see.  There  was  no  artificial  light  in  the  room. 
On  the  centre-table,  in  a  rude  coffin  which  had 
been  hastily  prepared,  lay  the  body.  It  was  cov 
ered  by  a  white  sheet.  The  moon  poured  in  a 
ghastly  light  through  the  window.  The  form  of 
the  dead  man  was  outlined  distinctly  under  the 
sheet.  Hetty  almost  ran  up  against  it  when  she 
entered  the  room.  Her  nerves  were  overstrung; 
she  was  not  prepared  for  the  sight  which  met  her 
startled  eyes;  uttering  a  piercing  shriek,  she 
rushed  from  the  room  into  her  Aunt  Fanny's  arms. 

"Now,  whatever  is  the  matter?"  said  the  elder 
woman. 

"You  shouldn't  have  sent  me  in  there,"  panted 
Hetty.  "You  should  have  told  me  that  it  was 
there." 

"  Well,  well,  I  thought  you  knew.  What  a  silly 
little  good-for-nothing  you  are!  Stay  quiet  and 
I'll  run  and  fetch  the  paper.  Dear,  dear,  I'm  glad 
you  are  not  my  niece;  it's  Armitage  you  belong  to,** 


64  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Mrs.  Armitage  entered  the  parlor,  fetched  the 
required  paper,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her.  As 
she  walked  down  the  passage  Hetty  started  quickly 
forward  and  caught  her  arm. 

"If  I  don't  tell  somebody  at  once  I'll  go  mad," 
she  said.  u  Aunt  Fanny,  I  must  speak  to  you  at 
once.  "I  can't  keep  it  to  myself  another  minute." 

"Good  gracious  me!  whatever  is  to  be  done, 
Hetty?  How  am  I  to  find  time  to  listen  to  your 
silly  nonsense  just  now?  There's  your  uncle  nearly 
wild  with  all  the  work  being  left  on  his  hands." 

a  It  isn't  silly  nonsense,  Aunt  Fanny.  I've  got 
to  say  something.  I  know  something.  I  must 
tell  it  to  you.  I  must  tell  it  to  you  at  once." 

"Why,  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Armitage,  staring  hard 
at  her  niece,  "  yon  are  not  making  a  fool  of  me,  are 
you?" 

"No.  I'll  go  up  to  my  room.  Come  to  me  as 
soon  as  ever  you  can.  Tell  Uncle  that  you  are 
tired  and  must  go  to  bed  at  once.  Tell  any  lie, 
make  any  excuse,  only  come  to  me  quickly.  I'm 
in  such  a  state  that  if  you  don't  come  I'll  have  to 
go  right  into  the  taproom  and  tell  every  one  what  I 
know.  Oh,  Aunt  Fanny !  have  mercy  on  me  and 
come  quickly." 

"You  do  seem  in  a  way,  Hetty,"  replied  the 
aunt.  "  For  goodness  sake  do  keep  yourself  calm. 
There,  run  up-stairs  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  min 
ute  or  two." 

Mrs.  Armitage  went  into  the  taproom  to  her  hus 
band. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  «5 

"Look  here,  John,"  she  sad,  "I've  got  a  split* 
ting  headache,  and  Hetty  is  fairly  knocked  up. 
Can't  you  manage  to  do  without  us  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening?" 

"Of  course,  wife,  if  you're  really  bad,"  replied 
Armitage.  "  There's  work  here  for  three  pairs  of 
hands,"  he  added,  "  but  that  can't  be  helped,  if  you 
are  really  bad." 

"  Yes,  I  am,  and  as  to  that  child,  she  is  fairly 
done." 

"I'm  not  surprised.  I  wonder  she's  alive  when 
she  knows  the  whole  thing  is  owing  to  her.  Little 
hussy,  I'd  like  to  box  her  ears,  that  I  would." 

"So  would  I  for  that  matter,"  replied  the  wife, 
"  but  she's  in  an  awful  state,  poor  child,  and  if  I 
don't  get  her  to  bed,  she'll  be  ill,  and  there  will  be 
more  money  out  of  pocket." 

"Don't  waste  your  strength  sitting  up  with  her, 
wife,  she  ain't  worth  it,"  Armitage  called  out,  as 
his  wife  left  the  room. 

A  moment  later,  Mrs.  Armitage  crept  softly 
up-stairs.  She  entered  Hetty's  little  chamber, 
which  was  also  flooded  with  moonlight.  It  was  a 
tiny  room,  with  a  sloping  roof.  Its  little  lattice 
window  was  wide  open.  Hetty  was  kneeling  by 
the  window  looking  out  into  the  night.  The  mo 
ment  she  saw  her  aunt  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  ran 
to  meet  her. 

"Lock  the  door,  Aunt  Fanny,"  she  said,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper. 

"  Oh,  child,  whatever  has  come  to  you?" 
I 


66  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Lock  the  door,  Aunt  Fanny,  or  let  me  do  it." 

"  There,  I'll  humor  you.  Here's  the  key.  I'll 
put  it  into  my  pocket.  Why  don't  you  have  a 
light,  Hetty?" 

*  I  don't  want  it — the  moon  makes  light  enough 
for  me.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  If  I 
don't  tell  it,  I  shall  go  mad.  You  must  share  it 
with  me,  Aunt  Fanny.  You  and  I  must  both  know 
it,  and  we  must  keep  it  to  ourselves  forever  and 
ever  and  ever." 

"Lor,  child !  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"I'll  soon  tell  you.  Let  me  kneel  close  to  you. 
Hold  my  hand.  I  never  felt  so  frightened  in  all 
my  life  before." 

"Out  with  it,  Hetty,  whatever  it  is." 

"Aunt,  before  I  say  a  word,  you've  got  to  make 
me  a  promise." 

"What's  that?" 

"  You  won't  tell  a  soul  what  I  am  going  to  say  to 
you." 

"I  hate  making  promises  of  that  sort,  Hetty." 

"Never  mind  whether  you  hate  it  or  not. 
Promise  or  I  shall  go  mad." 

"  Oh,  dear  me !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Armitage,  "  why 
should  a  poor  woman  be  bothered'in  this  way,  and 
you  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  me.  Don't  you  forget 
that  it's  Armitage  you  belong  to.  You've  no  blood 
of  mine,  thank  goodness,  in  your  veins." 

"What  does  that  matter.    You're  a  woman,  and 

I'm  another.    I'm  just  in  the  most  awful  position 

.   a  girl  could  be  in.    But  whatever  happens,  I'll  bo 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  67 

true  to  him.  Yes,  Aunt  Fanny,  I'll  be  true  to 
him.  I'm  nothing  to  him,  no  more  than  if  I  were- 
a  weed,  but  I  love  him  madly,  deeply,  desperately. 
He  is  all  the  world  to  me.  He  ,is  my  master,  and 
I  am  his  slave.  Of  course  I'm  nothing  to  him,  but 
he's  everything  to  me,  and  he  shan't  die.  Aunt 
Fanny,  you  and  I  have  got  to  be  true  to  him.  We 
must  share  the  thing  together,  for  I  can't  keep  the 
secret  by  myself.  You  must  share  it  with  me, 
Aunt  Fanny." 

Up  to  this  point,  Mrs.  Armitage  had  regarded 
Hetty's  words  as  merely  those  of  a  hysterical  and 
overwrought  girl.  Now,  however,  she  began  to 
perceive  method  in  her  madness. 

"Look  here,  child,"  she  said,  "  if  you've  got  any 
thing  to  say,  say  it,  and  have  done  with  it.  I'm 
not  blessed  with  over  much  patience,  and  I  can't 
stand  beating  round  the  bush.  If  you  have  a  se 
cret,  out  with  it,  you  silly  thing.  Oh,  yes,  of  course 
I  won't  betray  you.  I  expect  it's  just  this,  you've 
gone  and  done  something  you  oughtn't  to.  Oh, 
what  have  I  done  to  be  blessed  with  a  niece-in-law 
like  you? 

"  It's  nothing  of  that  sort,  Aunt  Fanny.  It  is 
this — I  don't  mind  telling  you  now,  now  that  you 
have  promised  not  to  betray  me.  Aunt  Fanny,  I 
was  out  last  night — I  saw  the  murder  committed." 

Mrs.  Armitage  suppressed  a  sharp  scream. 

"Heaven  preserve  us!"  she  said,  in  a  choking 
voice.  "Were  you  not  in  bed,  you  wicked  girl?" 

"No,  I  was  out.    I  had  quarrelled  with  Mr. 


68  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Frere  in  the  parlor,  and  I  thought  I'd  follow  him 
and  make  it  up.  I  went  straight  on  to  the  Plain — 
I  saw  him  running.  I  hid  behind  a  furze  bush 
and  I  saw  the  quarrel,  and  I  heard  the  words — I 
saw  the  awful  struggle,  and  I  heard  the  blows.  I 
heard  the  fall,  too — and  I  saw  the  man  who  had 
killed  Mr.  Frere  run  away." 

u  I  wonder  you  never  told  all  this  to-day,  Hetty 
Armitage.  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  that  poor  Mr. 
Everett.  Oh,  dear,  what  will  not  our  passions  lead 
us  to ;  to  think  that  two  young  gentlemen  should 
come  to  this  respectable  house,  and  that  it  should 
be  the  case  of  Cain  and  Abel  over  again — one  ris 
ing  up  and  slaying  the  other." 

Hetty,  who  had  been  kneeling  all  this  time,  now 
rose.  Her  face  was  ghastly — her  words  came  out 
in  strange  pauses. 

"It  wasn't  Mr.  Everett,"  she  said. 

"Good  Heavens!  Hetty,"  exclaimed  her  aunt, 
springng  also  to  her  feet,  and  catching  the  girl's 
two  hands  within  her  own — "  It  wasn't  Mr.  Everett! 
— what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

a  What  I  say,  Aunt  Fanny — the  man  who  killed 
Mr.  Frere  was  Mr.  Awdrey.  Our  Mr.  Awdrey, 
Aunt  Fanny,  and  I  could  die  for  him — and  no  one 
must  ever  know — and  I  saw  him  this  evening,  and 
— and  he  has  forgotten  all  about  it.  He  doesn't 
know  a  bit  about  it — not  a  bit.  Oh,  Aunt  Fanny, 
I  shall  go  quite  mad,  if  you  don't  promise  to  help 
me  to  keep  my  secret." 


CHAPTEE  YIT. 

tt  SIT  down,  Hetty,  and  keep  yourself  quiet,"  said 
Mrs.  Armitage. 

Her  manner  had  completely  changed.  A 
stealthy,  fearful  look  crept  into  her  face.  She  went 
on  tiptoe  to  the  door  to  assure  herself  over  again 
that  it  was  locked.  She  then  approached  the  win 
dow,  shut  it,  fastened  it,  and  drew  a  heavy  moreen 
curtain  across  it. 

"When  one  has  secrets,"  she  said,  "it  is  best  to 
be  certain  there  are  no  eavesdroppers  anywhere." 

She  then  lit  a  candle  and  placed  it  on  the  centre 
of  the  little  table. 

Having  done  this,  she  seated  herself — she  didn't 
care  to  look  at  Hetty.  She  felt  as  if  in  a  sort  of 
way  she  had  committed  the  murder  herself.  The 
knowledge  of  the  truth  impressed  her  so  deeply 
that  she  did  not  care  to  encounter  any  eyes  for  a 
few  minuttes. 

"Aunt  Fanny,  why  don't  you  speak  to  me?" 
asked  the  girl  at  last. 

"  You  are  quite  sure,  child,  that  you  have  told 
me  the  truth?"  said  Mrs.  Armitage  then. 

"  Yes — it  is  the  truth — is  it  likely  that  I  could 
invent  anything  so  fearful?" 

"No,  it  ain't  likely,"  replied  the  elder  woman, 
"but  I  don't  intend  to  trust  just  to  the  mere  word 

tt 


70  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

of  a  slip  of  a  giddy  girl  like  you.    You  must  swear 
it — is  there  a  Bible  in  the  room?" 

"Oh,  don't,  Aunt,  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"  Stop  that  silly  whining  of  yours,  Hetty ;  what 
do  your  wishes  matter  one  way  or  the  other?  If 
you've  told  me  the  truth  an  awful  thing  has  hap 
pened,  but  I  won't  stir  in  the  matter  until  I  know 
it's  gospel  truth.  Tes,  there's  your  Testament — • 
the  Testament  will  do.  Now,  Hetty  Armitage, 
hold  this  book  in  your  hand,  and  say  before  God 
in  heaven  that  you  saw  Mr.  Robert  Awdrey  kill  Mr. 
Horace  Frere.  Kiss  the  book,  and  tell  the  truth 
if  you  don't  want  to  lose  your  soul." 

Hetty  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Her  nature 
was  impressionable — the  hour — the  terrible  excite 
ment  she  had  just  lived  through — the  solemn, 
frightened  expression  of  her  aunt's  face,  irritated 
her  nerves  to  the  last  extent.  She  had  the  utmost 
difficulty  in  keeping  herself  from  screaming  aloud. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  said,  hold 
ing  the  Testament  between  her  limp  fingers. 

"  Say  these  words :  *  I,  Hetty  Armitage,  saw  Mr. 
Robert  Awdrey  kill  Mr.  Horace  Frere  on  Salis 
bury  Plain  last  night.  This  is  the  truth,  so  help 
meGod.'r 

"I,  Hetty  Armitage,  saw  Mr.  Robert  Awdrey 
kill  Mr.  Horace  Frere  on  Salisbury  Plain  last 
night.  This  is  the  truth,  so  help  me  God,"  re 
peated  Hetty,  in  a  mechanical  voice. 

"Kiss  the  Book  now,  child,"  said  the  aunt. 

Hetty  raised  it  to  her  lips. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  71 

"Give  me  the  Testament." 

Mrs.  Armitage  took  it  in  her  hands.   « 

H  Aunt  Fanny,  what  in  the  world  do  yon  mean 
to  do  now?"  said  the  girl. 

"You  are  witness,  Hetty;  you  are  witness  to 
what  I  mean  to  do.  It  is  all  for  the  sake  of  the 
Family.  What  are  poor  folks  like  us  and  our  con 
sciences,  and  our  secrets,  compared  to  the  Family? 
This  book  has  not  done  its  work  yet.  Now  I  am 
going  to  take  an  oath  on  the  Testament.  I,  Fran 
ces  Armitage,  swear  by  the  God  above,  and  the  Bi 
ble  He  has  given  us,  that  I  will  never  tell  to  mortal 
man  the  truth  about  this  murder." 

Mrs.  Armitage  finished  her  words  by  pressing 
the  Testament  to  her  lips. 

"Now  you  swear,"  she  said,  giving  the  book  back 
again  to  her  niece. 

Hetty  did  so.  Her  voice  came  out  in  broken 
sobs.  Mrs.  Armitage  replaced  the  Testament  on 
the  top  shelf  of  Hetty's  little  bookcase. 

"There,"  she  said,  wiping  her  brow,  "that's 
done.  You  saw  the  murder  committed;  you  and  I 
have  sworn  that  we'll  never  tell  what  we  know. 
We  needn't  talk  of  it  any  more.  Another  man 
will  swing  for  it.  Let  him  swing.  He  is  a  nice 
fellow,  too.  He  showed  me  the  photograph  of  his 
mother  one  day.  She  had  white  hair  and  eyes 
like  his;  she  looked  like  a  lady  every  inch  of 
her.  Mr.  Everett  said,  *I  am  her  only  child,  Mrs. 
Armitage;  I'm  all  she  has  got.'  He  had  a  pleas 
ant  smile — wonderful,  and  a  good  face.  Poor  lad. 


73  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

if  it  wasn't  the  Family  I  had  to  be  true  to  I 
wouldn't  let  him  swing.  They  say  down-stairs  that 
the  circumstantial  evidence  is  black  against  him." 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  they  cannot  convict  him, 
Aunt." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?  I  say  they  can 
and  will,  but  don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more.  The 
one  thing  you  and  I  have  to  do  is  to  be  true  to  the 
Family.  There' s  not  a  second  thought  to  be 
given  to  the  matter.  Sit  down,  Hetty;  don't  keep 
hovering  about  like  that.  I  think  I  had  better  send 
you  away  from  home ;  only  I  forgot,  you  are  sure 
to  be  called  upon  as  a  witness.  You  must  see  that 
your  face  doesn't  betray  you  when  you're  cross- 
examined." 

"No,  it  won't,"  said  the  girl.  "I've  got  you  to 
help  me  now.  I  can  talk  about  it  sometimes,  and 
it  won't  lie  so  heavily  on  my  heart.  Aunt  Fanny, 
do  you  really  think  Mr.  Awdrey  forgets?" 

"  Do  I  think  it?  I  know  it.  I  don't  trouble  to 
think  about  what  I  know.  It's  in  their  blood,  I 
tell  you.  The  things  they  ought  to  remember  are 
wiped  out  of  their  brains  as  clean  as  if  you  washed 
a  slate  after  using  it.  My  mother  was  cook  in  the 
Family,  and  her  mother  and  her  mother  before 
her  again.  We  are  Perrys,  and  the  Perrys  had 
always  a  turn  for  cooking.  We've  cooked  the  din 
ner  up  at  the  Court  for  close  on  a  hundred  years. 
Don't  you  suppose  I  know  their  ways  by  this  time? 
Oh,  I  could  tell  you  of  fearful  things.  There  have 
been  dark  deeds  done  before  now,  and  the  men  who 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  73 

did  them  had  no  more  memory  of  their  own  sin 
than  if  they  were  babies  of  a  month  old.  There 
was  a  Squire — two  generations  back  he  was — my 
grandmother  knew  him — and  he  had  a  son.  The 
mother  was — !  but  there!  where's  the  use  of  go 
ing  into  that.  The  mother  died  raving  mad,  and 
the  Squire  knew  no  more  what  he  had  done  than 
the  babe  unborn.  Folks  call  it  the  curse  of  God. 
It's  an  awful  doom,  and  it  always  comes  on  just  as 
it  has  fallen  on  the  young  Squire.  There  comes  a 
fit  of  passion — a  desperate  deed  is  done  or  a  des 
perate  sorrow  is  met,  and  all  is  blank.  They 
wither  up  afterward  just  as  if  the  drought  was  in 
them.  He'll  die  young,  the  young  Squire  will,  just 
like  his  forefathers.  "What's  the  good  of  crying, 
Hetty?  Crying  won't  save  him — he'll  die  young. 
Blood  for  blood.  God  will  require  that  young 
man's  blood  at  his  hands.  He  can't  escape — it's 
in  his  race;  but  at  least  he  shan't  hang  for  it — if 
you  and  I  can  keep  him  from  the  gallows.  Hetty, 
put  your  hand  in  mine  and  tell  me  all  over  again 
what  you  saw." 

"  I  can't  bear  to  go  over  it  again,  Aunt  Fanny — 
it  seems  burnt  into  me  like  fire.  I  can  think  of 
nothing  else  —I  can  think  of  no  face  but  Mr.  Aw- 
drey's— I  can  only  remember  the  look  on  his  face 
when  he  bent  over  the  man  he  had  killed.  I  saw 
his  face  just  for  a  minute  by  the  light  of  the  match, 
and  I  never  could  have  believed  that  human  face 
could  have  looked  like  that  before.  It  was  old — 
like  the  face  of  an  old  man.  But  I  met  him  this 


74  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

evening,  Aunt  Fanny,  and  lie  had  forgotten  all 
about  it,  and  he  was  jolly  and  happy,  and  they 
say  he  was  seen  with  Miss  Douglas  to-day.  The 
family  had  a  picnic  on  the  Plain,  and  Miss  Doug 
las  was  there,  with  her  uncle,  Sir  John  Cuthbert, 
and  there  were  a  lot  of  other  young  ladies.  Mr. 
Awdrey  went  back  to  Cuthbertstown  with  Miss 
Douglas.  It  was  when  he  was  returning  to  the 
Court  I  met  him.  All  the  world  knows  he  wor 
ships  the  ground  she  walks  on.  I  suppose  he'll 
marry  her  by  and  by,  Aunt — he  seemed  so  happy 
and  contented  to-night." 

"I suppose  he  will  marry  her,  child — that  is  the 
best  thing  that  could  happen  to  him,  and  she's  a 
nice  young  lady  and  his  equal  in  other  ways.  He 
happy,  did  you  say  ?  Maybe  he  is  for  a  bit,  but 
he's  a  gone  man  for  all  that — nothing,  nor  no  one 
can  keep  the  doom  of  his  house  from  him.  What 
are  you  squeezing  my  hand  for,  Hetty?" 

*  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  the  Squire  marrying 
Miss  Douglas." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  What  is  the  Squire  to 
you,  except  as  one  of  the  Family.  You'd  better 
mind  your  station,  Hetty,  and  leave  your  betters 
to  themselves.  If  you  don't  you'll  get  into  awful 
trouble  some  day.  But  now  the  night  is  going  on, 
and  we've  got  something  to  do.  Tell  me  again 
how  that  murder  was  done." 

"  The  Squire  ran  at  Mr.  Frere,  and  the  point  of 
Jus  stick  ran  into  Mr.  Frere's  eye." 

"What  did  he  do  with  the  stick?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT  75 

*  He  went  to  a  copse  of  young  alders  and  thrust 
it  into  the  middle.  Oh,  it's  safe  enough." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind — it  isn't  safe  at  all.  How 
do  you  know  they  won't  cut  those  alders  down  and 
find  the  stick?  Mr.  Robert's  walking-stick  is  well 
known — it  has  a  silver  plate  upon  it  with  his  name. 
Years  hence  people  may  come  across  that  stick, 
and  all  the  county  will  know  at  once  who  it  belonged 
to.  Come  along,  Hetty — you  and  I  have  our  work 
to  do." 

"What  is  that,  Aunt  Fanny?" 

"  Before  the  morning  dawns  we  must  bury  that 
stick  where  no  one  will  find  it." 

"  Oh,  Aunt,  don't  ask  me — I  can't  go  back  to  the 
Plain  again." 

"  You  can  and  must — I  wouldn't  ask  you,  but  I 
couldn't  find  the  exact  spot  myself.  I'll  go  down 
first  and  have  a  word  with  Armitage,  and  then  re 
turn  to  you." 

Mrs.  Armitage  softly  unlocked  the  door  of  her 
niece's  room,  and  going  first  to  her  own  bedroom, 
washed  her  ashen  face  with  cold  water ;  she  then 
rubbed  it  hard  with  a  rough  towel  to  take  some  of 
the  tell-tale  expression  out  of  it.  Afterward  she 
stole  softly  down-stairs.  Her  husband  was  busy 
in  the  taproom.  She  opened  the  door,  and  called 
his  name. 

"Armitage,  I  want  you  a  minute." 

"Mercy  on  us,  I  thought  you  were  in  bed  an 
hour  ago,  wife,"  he  said.  "Why,  you  do  look  bad, 
what's  the  matter?" 


76  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"It  isn't  me,  it's  the  child — she's  hysterical. 
I've  been  having  no  end  of  a  time  with  her ;  I  came 
down  to  say  that  I'd  sleep  with  Hetty  to-night. 
Good-night,  Armitage." 

"Good-night,"  said  the  man.  "I  say,  wife, 
though,"  he  called  after  her,  "see  that  you  are  up 
in  good  time  to-morrow." 

"Never  fear,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Armitage,  as  she 
ascended  the  creaking  stairs,  "I'll  be  down  and 
about  at  six." 

She  re-entered  her  niece's  bedroom  and  locked 
the  door. 

"  How  did  you  get  out  last  night?"  she  asked. 

"Through  the  window." 

"Well,  you're  a  nice  one.  This  is  not  the  time 
to  scold  you,  however,  and  you  and  I  have  got  to 
go  out  the  same  way  now.  They'll  think  we  are  in 
our  bed — let  them  think  it.  Come,  be  quick — show 
me  the  way  out.  It's  a  goodish  step  from  here  to 
the  Plain ;  we've  not  a  minute  to  lose,  and  not  a 
soul  must  see  us  going  or  returning." 

Mrs.  Armitage  was  nearly  as  slender  and  active 
as  her  niece.  She  accomplished  the  descent  from 
the  window  without  the  least  difficulty,  and  soon 
she  and  Hetty  were  walking  quickly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  Plain — they  kept  well  in  the  shadow  of 
the  road  and  did  not  meet  a  soul  the  entire  way. 
.During  that  walk  neither  woman  spoke  a  word  to 
the  other.  Presently  they  reached  the  Plain. 
Hetty  trembled  as  she  stood  by  the  alder  copse. 

"Keep  your  courage  up,"  whispered  Mrs.  Armi- 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  77 

tage,  "we  must  bury  that  stick  where  no  one  can 
find  it." 

"  Don't  bury  it,  Aunt  Fanny,"  whispered  Hetty. 
"  I  have  thought  of  something — there's  the  pond 
half  a  mile  away.  Let  us  weight  the  stick  with 
stones  and  throw  it  into  the  pond." 

"  That's  a  good  thought,  child,  we'll  do  it." 


CHAPTER  VIEL 

THE  village  never  forgot  the  week  when  the  young 
Squire  came  of  age.  During  that  week  many  im 
portant  things  happened.  The  usual  festivities 
were  arranged  to  take  place  on  Monday,  for  on 
that  day  the  Squire  completed  his  twenty-first  year. 
On  the  following  Thursday  Robert  Awdrey  was  to 
marry  Margaret  Douglas,  and  between  these  two 
days,  namely,  on  Tuesday  and  Wednesday,  Frank 
Everett  was  to  be  tried  for  the  murder  of  Horace 
Frere  at  Salisbury.  It  will  be  easily  believed, 
therefore,  that  the  excitement  of  the  good  folks  all 
over  the  country  reached  high-water  mark.  Quite 
apart  from  his  position,  the  young  Squire  was 
much  loved  for  himself.  His  was  an  interesting 
personality.  Even  if  this  had  not  been  so,  the 
fact  of  his  coming  of  age,  and  the  almost  more  in 
teresting  fact  of  his  marriage,  would  fill  all  who 
knew  him  with  a  lively  sense  of  pleasure.  The 
public  gaze  would  be  naturally  "turned  full  upon 
this  young  man.  But  great  as  was  the  interest 
which  all  who  knew  him  took  in  Awdrey,  it  was 
nothing  to  that  which  was  felt  with  regard  to  a 
man  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  county,  but  whose 
awful  fate  now  filled  all  hearts  and  minds.  The 
strongest  circumstantial  evidence  was  against 

78 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  79 

Frank  Everett,  but  beyond  circumstantial  evidence 
there  was  nothing  but  good  to  be  known  of  this 
young  man.  He  had  lived  in  the  past,  as  far  as 
all  could  tell,  an  immaculate  life.  He  was  the  only 
son  of  a  widowed  mother.  Mrs.  Everett  had  taken 
lodgings  in  Salisbury,  and  was  awaiting  the  issue 
of  the  trial  with  feelings  which  none  could  fathom. 

As  the  week  of  her  wedding  approached,  Mar 
garet  Douglas  showed  none  of  the  happy  expect 
ancy  of  a  bride.  Her  face  began  to  assume  a  worn 
and  anxious  expression.  She  could  hardly  think  of 
anything  except  the  coming  trial.  A  few  days  be 
fore  the  wedding  she  earnestly  begged  her  lover  to 
postpone  the  ceremony  for  a  short  time. 

"I  cannot  account  for  my  sensations,  Robert," 
she  said.  "The  shadow  of  this  awful  tragedy 
seems  to  shut  away  the  sunshine  from  me.  You 
cannot,  of  course,  help  coming  of  age  on  Monday, 
but  surely  there  is  nothing  unreasonable  in  my 
asking  to  have  the  wedding  postponed  for  a  week. 
I  will  own  that  I  am  superstitious — I  come  of  a 
superstitious  race — my  grandmother  had  the  gift 
of  second  sight — perhaps  I  inherit  it  also,  I  cannot 
say.  Do  yield  to  me  in  the  matter,  Bobert.  Do 
postpone  the  wedding." 

Awdrey  stood  close  to  Margaret.  She  looked 
anxiously  into  his  eyes ;  they  met  hers  with  a  curi 
ous  expression  of  irritation  in  them.  The  young 
squire  was  pale ;  there  were  fretful  lines  round  his 
mouth. 

"I  told  you  before,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  affected 


80  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

with  a  strange  and  unaccountable  apathy  with  re 
gard  to  this  terrible  murder.  I  try  with  all  my 
might  to  get  up  sympathy  for  that  poor  unfortu 
nate  Everett.  Try  as  I  may,  however,  I  utterly 
fail  to  feel  even  pity  for  him.  Margaret,  I  would 
confess  this  to  no  one  in  the  world  but  yourself. 
Everett  is  nothing  to  me — you  are  everything. 
"Why  should  I  postpone  my  happiness  on  Everett's 
account?" 

"You  are  not  well,  dearest,"  said  Margaret,  look 
ing  at  him  anxiously. 

"Yes,  I  am,  Maggie,"  he  replied.  "You  must 
not  make  me  fanciful.  I  never  felt  better  in  my 

life,  except "  Here  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his 

brow. 

"Except?"  she  repeated. 

"  Nothing  really — I  have  a  curious  sensation  of 
numbness  in  the  back  of  my  head.  I  should  think 
nothing  at  all  about  it  but  for  the  fact " 

Here  he  paused,  and  looked  ahead  of  him  stead- 
ily. 

"But  for  what  fact,  Eobert?" 

"You  must  have  heard — it  must  have  been  whis 
pered  to  you — every  one  all  over  the  county  knows 
that  sometimes — sometimes,  Maggie,  queer  things 
happen  to  men  of  our  house." 

"  Of  course,  I  have  heard  of  what  you  allude  to," 
she  answered  brightly.  "Do  you  think  I  mind? 
Do  you  think  I  believe  in  the  thing?  Not  I.  I  am 
not  superstitious  in  that  way.  So  you,  dear  old 
fellow,  are  imagining  that  you  are  to  be  one  of  the 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIfiNT.  fcl 

victims  of  that  dreadful  old  curse.  Best  assured 
that  you  will  be  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  have  a 
cousin — he  is  in  the  medical  profession — you  shall 
know  him  when  we  go  to  London.  I  spoke  to  Dr. 
Rumsey  once  about  this  curious  phase  in  your 
family  history.  He  said  it  was  caused  by  an  ex 
traordinary  state  of  nerves,  and  that  the  resolute 
power  of  will  was  needed  to  overcome  it.  Dr. 
Eumsey  is  a  very  interesting  man,  Robert.  He 
believed  in  heredity;  who  does  not?  but  he  also 
firmly  believes  that  the  power  of  will,  rightly 
exercised,  can  be  more  powerful  than  heredity. 
Now,  I  don't  mean  you  to  be  a  victim  to  that  old 
family  failing,  so  please  banish  the  thought  from 
your  mind  once  and  for  ever." 

Awdrey  smiled  at  her. 

"You  cheer  me,"  he  said.  "I  am  a  lucky  man 
to  have  found  such  a  woman  as  you  to  be  my  wife. 
You  will  help  to  bring  forward  all  that  is  best  in 
me.  Margaret,  I  feel  that  through  you  I  shall 
conquer  the  curse  which  lies  in  my  blood." 

u  There  is  no  curse,  Robert.  When  your  grand 
father  married  a  strong-minded  Scotch  wife  the 
curse  was  completely  arrested  —  the  spell  re 
moved." 

"Yes,"  said  Awdrey,  "of  course  you  are  per 
fectly  right.  My  father  has  never  suffered  from  a 
trace  of  the  family  malady,  and  as  for  me,  I  didn't 
know  what  nervousness  meant  until  within  the  last 
month.  I  certainly  have  suffered  from  a  stupid 
lapse  of  memory  during  the  last  month." 


82  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"We  all  forget  things  at  times,"  said  Margaret. 
"What  is  it  that  worries  you?" 

"  Something  so  trifling  that  you  will  laugh  when 
I  tell  you.  You  know  my  favorite  stick?" 

"  Of  course.  By  the  way,  you  have  not  used  it 
lately." 

"  I  have  not.  It  is  lost.  I  have  looked  for  it 
high  and  low,  and  racked  my  memory  in  vain  to 
know  where  I  could  have  put  it.  When  last  I  re 
member  using  it,  I  was  talking  to  that  unfortunate 
young  Frere  in  the  underwood.  I  wish  I  could 
find  it — not  for  the  sake  of  the  stick,  but  because, 
nnder  my  circumstances,  I  don't  want  to  forget 
things." 

"Well,  every  one  forgets  things  at  times — you 
will  remember  where  you  have  put  the  stick  when 
you  are  not  thinking  of  it." 

"Quite  true;  I  wish  it  didn't  worry  me,  how 
ever.  You  know  that  poor  Frere  met  his  death  in 
the  most  extraordinary  manner.  The  man  who 
killed  him  ran  his  walking-stick  into  his  eye.  The 
doctors  say  that  the  ferrule  of  the  stick  entered  the 
brain,  causing  instantaneous  death.  Everett  car 
ried  a  stick,  but  the  ferrule  was  a  little  large  for 
the  size  of  the  wound  made.  Now  my  stick " 

"Really,  Robert,  I  won't  listen  to  you  for  an 
other  moment,"  exclaimed  Margaret.  "The  next 
thing  you  will  do  is  to  assure  me  that  your  stick 
was  the  weapon  which  caused  the  murder." 

"No,"  he  replied,  with  a  spasm  of  queer  pain. 
"  Of  course,  Maggie,  there  is  nothing  wrong,  only 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  83 

with  our  peculiar  idiosyncrasies,  small  lapses  of 
memory  make  one  anxious.  I  should  be  happy  if 
I  could  find  the  stick,  and  happier  still  if  this 
numbness  would  leave  the  back  of  my  head.  But 
your  sweet  society  will  soon  put  me  right." 

"I  mean  it  to,"  she  replied,  in  her  firm  way. 

"You  will  marry  me,  dearest,  on  the  twenty- 
fourth?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "you  are  first,  first  of  all. 
I  will  put  aside  my  superstition — the  wedding  shall 
not  be  postponed. " 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times — how  happy  you 
make  me !" 

Awdrey  went  home  in  the  highest  spirits. 

The  auspicious  week  dawned.  The  young 
Squire's  coming  of  age  went  off  without  a  flaw. 
The  day  was  a  perfect  one  in  August.  All  the  ten 
ants  assembled  at  the  Court  to  welcome  Awdrey  to 
his  majority.  His  modest  and  graceful  speech  was 
applauded  on  all  sides.  He  never  looked  better 
than  when  he  stood  on  a  raised  platform  and  ad 
dressed  the  tenants  who  had  known  him  from  his 
babyhood.  Some  day  he  was  to  be  their  landlord. 
In  Wiltshire  the  tie  between  landlord  and  tenant  is 
very  strong.  The  spirit  of  the  feudal  times  still  in 
a  measure  pervades  this  part  of  the  country.  The 
cheers  which  followed  Awdrey 's  speech  rose  high 
on  the  evening  air.  Immediately  afterward  there 
was  supper  on  the  lawn,  followed  by  a  dance. 
Among  those  assembled,  however,  might  have 
been  seen  two  anxious  faces — one  of  them  belonged 


84  DR.  RUIUSEY'S  PATIENT. 

to  Mrs.  Armitage.  She  had  been  a  young-looking 
woman  for  her  years,  until  after  the  night  of  the 
murder — now  she  looked  old,  her  hair  was  sprin 
kled  with  gray,  her  face  had  deep  lines  in  it,  there 
was  a  touch  of  irritation  also  in  her  manner.  She 
and  Hetty  kept  close  together.  Sometimes  her 
hand  clutched  hold  of  the  hand  of  her  niece  and 
gave  it  a  hard  pressure.  Hetty's  little  hand  trem 
bled,  and  her  whole  frame  quivered  with  almost  un 
controllable  agony  when  Mrs.  Armitage  did  this. 
All  the  gay  scene  was  ghastly  mockery  to  poor 
Hetty.  Her  distress,  her  wasted  appearance, 
could  not  but  draw  general  attention  to  her.  The 
little  girl,  however,  had  never  looked  more  beauti 
ful  nor  lovely.  She  was  observed  by  many  people ; 
strangers  pointed  her  out  to  one  another. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  girl  with  the  beautiful 
face?"  they  said.  "It  was  on  her  account  that  the 
tragedy  took  place." 

Presently  the  young  Squire  came  down  and 
asked  Mrs.  Armitage  to  open  the  ball  with  him. 

"You  do  me  great  honor,  sir,"  she  said.  She 
hesitated,  then  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

As  he  led  her  away,  his  eyes  met  those  of 
Hetty. 

"I'll  give  you  a  dance  later  on,"  he  said,  nod 
ding  carelessly  to  the  young  girl. 

She  blushed  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

There  wasn't  a  village  lad  in  the  entire  assembly 
who  would  not  have  given  a  year  of  his  life  to 
dance  even  once  with  beautiful  little  Hetty,  but  she 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  85 

declined  all  the  village  boys'  attentions  that 
evening. 

"She  wasn't  in  the  humor  to  dance,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  she  would  dance  with  the 
Squire  if  he  asked  her,  but  she  would  not  bestow 
her  favors  upon  any  one  else."  She  sat  down  pres 
ently  in  a  secluded  corner.  Her  eyes  followed 
Awdrey  wherever  he  went.  By  and  by  Margaret 
Douglas  noticed  her.  There  was  something  about 
the  childish  sad  face  which  drew  out  the  compas 
sion  of  Margaret's  large  heart.  She  went  quickly 
across  the  lawn  to  speak  to  her. 

"Good-evening,  Hetty,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you 
are  well?" 

Hetty  stood  up ;  she  began  to  tremble. 

"Yes,  Miss  Douglas,  I  am  quite  well,"  she  an 
swered. 

"You  don't  look  well,"  said  Margaret.  "Why 
are  you  not  dancing?" 

"I  haven't  the  heart  to  dance,"  said  Hetty, 
turning  suddenly  away.  Her  eyes  brimmed  with 
sudden  tears. 

"  Poor  little  girl !  how  could  I  be  so  thoughtless 
as  to  suppose  she  would  care  to  dance,"  thought 
Margaret.  "All  her  thoughts  must  be  occupied 
with  this  terrible  trial — Bobert  told  me  that  she 
would  be  the  principal  witness.  Poor  little  thing. " 

Margaret  stretched  out  her  hand  impulsively  and 
grasped  Hetty's. 

I  feel  for  you — I  quite  understand  you,"  she 
said.  Her  voice  trembled  with  deep  and  full  sym- 


86  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

pathy.  " I  see  that  you  are  suffering  a  great  deal, 
but  you  will  be  better  afterward — you  ought  to  go 
away  afterward — you  will  want  change." 

"I  would  rather  stay  at  home,  please,  Miss 
Douglas." 

"Well,  I  won't  worry  you.  Here  is  Mr.  Aw- 
drey.  You  have  not  danced  once,  Hetty.  Would 
you  not  like  to  have  a  dance  with  the  Squire,  just 
for  luck?  Yes,  I  see  you  would.  Robert,  come 
here." 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Awdrey.  "  Oh,  is  that  you, 
Hetty?  I  have  not  forgotten  our  dance." 

"Dance  with  her  now,  Robert,"  said  Margaret. 
"  There  is  a  waltz  just  striking  up — I  will  meet 
you  presently  on  the  terrace. " 

Margaret  crossed  the  lawn,  and  Awdrey  gave  his 
arm  to  Hetty.  She  turned  her  large  gaze  upon 
him  for  a  moment,  her  lips  trembled,  she  placed 
her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Yes,  I  will  dance  with  him 
once,"  she  said  to  herself.  "It  will  please  me — I 
am  doing  a  great  deal  for  him,  and  it  will  strength 
en  me — to  have  this  pleasure.  Oh,  I  hope,  I  do 
hope  I'll  be  brave  and  silent,  and  not  let  the  awful 
pain  at  my  heart  get  the  better  of  me.  Please, 
Gocl,  help  me  to  be  true  to  Mr.  Robert. " 

"Come,  Hetty,  why  won't  you  talk?"  said  the 
Squire ;  he  gave  her  a  kindly  yet  careless  glance. 

They  began  to  waltz,  but  Hetty  had  soon  to 
pause  for  want  of  breath. 

"  You  are  not  well, "  said  Awdrey ;  "  let  me  lead 
you  out  of  the  crowd.  Here,  let  us  sit  the  dance 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  87 

out  under  this  tree ;  now  you  are  better,  are  you 
not?" 

"Yes,  sir;  oh,  yes,  Mr.  Eobert,  I  am  much  bet 
ter  now."  She  panted  as  she  spoke. 

"How  pale  you  are,"  said  Awdrey  "and  you 
used  to  be  such  a  blooming,  rosy  little  thing. 
Well,  never  mind,"  he  added  hastily,  "I  ought 
not  to  forget  that  you  have  a  good  deal  to  worry 
you  just  now.  You  must  try  to  keep  up  your 
courage.  All  you  have  to  do  to-morrow  when  you 
go  into  court  is  to  tell  the  entire  and  exact  truth." 

"  You  don't  mean  me  to  do  that,  you  can't,"  said 
Hetty.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  gave  a  wild 
startled  glance.  The  next  moment  hef  whole  face 
was  covered  with  confusion.  "Oh,  what  have  I 
said?"  she  cried,  in  consternation.  "Of  course,  I 
will  tell  the  exact  and  perfect  truth." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Awdrey,  surprised  at  her  man 
ner.  "You  will  be  under  oath,  remember."  He 
stood  up  as  he  spoke.  "  Now  let  me  take  you  to 
your  aunt." 

"One  moment  first,  Mr.  Eobert;  I'd  like  to  ask 
you  a  question." 

"  Well,  Hetty,  what  is  it?"  said  the  young  man, 
kindly. 

Hetty  raised  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  she 
lowered  them. 

"It's  a  very  awful  thing,  the  kind  of  thing  that 
God  doesn't  forgive,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "for 
—for  a  girl  to  tell  a  lie  when  she's  under  oath?" 

"It  is  perjury,"  said  Awdrey,  in  a  sharp,  short 


88  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

voice.  *  Why  should  you  worry  your  head  about 
such  a  matter?" 

"  Of  course  not,  sir,  only  I'd  like  to  know.  I 
hope  you'll  be  very  happy  with  your  good  lady, 
Mr.  Awdrey,  when  you're  married.  I  think  I'll 
go  home  now,  sir.  I'm  not  quite  well,  and  it 
makes  me  giddy  to  dance.  I  wish  you  a  happy 
life,  sir,  and — and  Miss  Douglas  the  same.  If  you 
see  Aunt  Fanny,  Mr.  Robert,  will  you  tell  her  that 
I've  gone  home?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure  I  will.  Good-by,  Hetty. 
Here,  shake  hands,  won't  you?  God  bless  you, 
little  girl.  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  all  right." 

Hetty  crept  slowly  away ;  she  looked  like  a  little 
gray  shadow  as  she  returned  to  the  village,  passing 
silently  through  the  lovely  gardens  and  all  the 
sweet  summer  world.  Beautiful  as  she  was,  she 
was  out  of  keeping  with  the  summer  and  the  time 
of  gayety. 

Against  Awdrey's  wish  Margaret  insisted  on  be 
ing  present  during  the  first  day  of  the  trial.  Ever 
ett's  trial  would  in  all  probability  occupy  the 
whole  of  two  days.  Awdrey  was  to  appear  in 
court  as  witness.  His  evidence  and  that  of  Hetty 
Armitage  and  the  laborer  who  had  seen  Frere  run 
ning  across  the  plain  would  probably  sum  up  the 
case  against  the  prisoner.  Hetty's  evidence,  how 
ever,  was  the  most  important  of  all.  Some  of  the 
neighbors  said  that  Hetty  would  never  have  strength 
to  go  through  the  trial.  But  when  the  little  crea 
ture  stepped  into  the  witness-box,  there  was  no 


DR.   RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  89 

perceptible  want  of  energy  about  her — her  cheeks 
were  pink  with  the  color  of  excitement,  her  lovely 
eyes  shone  brightly.  She  gave  her  testimony  in  a 
clear,  penetrating,  slightly  defiant  voice.  That 
voice  of  hers  never  once  faltered.  Her  eyes  full  of 
desperate  courage  were  fixed  firmly  on  the  face  of 
the  solicitor  who  examined  her.  Even  the  terrible 
ordeal  of  cross-examination  was  borne  without 
flinching ;  nor  did  Hetty  once  commit  herself,  or 
contradict  her  own  evidence.  At  the  end  of  the 
cross-examination,  however,  she  fainted  off.  It 
was  noticed  afterward  by  eye-witnesses  that  Hetty's 
whole  evidence  had  been  given  with  her  face 
slightly  turned  away  from  that  of  the  accused  man. 
It  was  after  she  had  inadvertently  met  his  eyes 
that  she  turned  white  to  the  very  lips,  and  fell 
down  fainting  in  the  witness-box.  She  was  carried 
away  immediately,  and  murmurs  of  sympathy  fol 
lowed  her  as  she  was  taken  out  of  the  court. 
Hetty  was  undoubtedly  the  heroine  of  the  occasion. 
Her  remarkable  beauty,  her  modesty,  the  ring  of 
truth  which  seemed  to  pervade  all  her  unwilling 
words,  told  fatally  against  poor  Everett. 

She  was  obliged  to  return  to  court  on  the  second 
day,  but  Margaret  did  not  go  to  Salisbury  on  that 
occasion.  After  the  first  day  of  the  trial  Margaret 
spent  a  sleepless  night.  She  was  on  the  eve  of  her 
own  wedding,  but  she  could  think  of  nothing  but 
Everett  and  Everett's  mother.  Mrs.  Everett  was 
present  at  the  trial.  She  wore  a  widow's  dress  and 
her  veil  was  down,  but  once  or  twice  she  raised  it 


90  [DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

and  looked  at  her  son ;  the  son  also  glanced  at  his 
mother.  Margaret  had  seen  these  glances,  and 
they  wrung  her  heart  to  its  depths.  She  felt  that 
she  could  not  be  in  court  when  the  verdict  was 
given.  She  was  so  excited  with  regard  to  the  is 
sue  of  the  trial  that  she  gave  no  attention  to  those 
minor  matters  which  usually  occupy  the  minds  of 
young  brides. 

u  It  doesn't  matter, "  she  said  to  her  maid ;  "  pack 
anything  you  fancy  into  my  travelling  trunk.  Oh, 
yes,  that  dress  will  do ;  any  dress  will  do.  What 
hats  did  you  say?  Any  hats,  I  don't  care.  I'm 
going  to  Grandcourt  now,  there  may  be  news  from 
Salisbury." 

"They  say,  Miss  Douglas,  that  the  Court  won't 
rise  until  late  to-night.  The  jury  are  sure  to  take 
a  long  time  to  consider  the  case." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  Grandcourt  now.  Mr.  Aw- 
drey  may  have  returned.  I  shall  hear  the  latest 
news." 

Margaret  arrived  at  the  Court  just  before  dinner. 
Her  future  sisters-in-law,  Anne  and  Dorothy,  ran 
out  on  the  lawn  to  meet  her. 

"  Oh,  how  white  and  tired  you  look !" 

"I  am  not  a  bit  tired;  you  know  I  am  always 
pale.  Dorothy,  has  any  news  come  yet  from  Salis 
bury?" 

"Nothing  special,"  replied  Dorothy.  "The 
groom  has  come  back  to  tell  us  that  we  are  not  to 
wait  dinner  for  either  father  or  Robert.  You  will 
come  into  the  house  now,  won't  you,  Margaret?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  91 

"  No,  I'd  rather  stay  out  here.  I  don't  want  any 
dinner. " 

"  Nor  do  I.  I  will  stay  with  you, "  said  Dorothy. 
"Isn't  there  a  lovely  view  from  here?  I  love  this 
part  of  the  grounds  better  than  any  other  spot. 
You  can  just  get  a  peep  of  the  Cathedral  to  the 
right  and  the  Plain  to  the  left." 

"  I  hate  the  Plain, "  said  Margaret,  with  a  shiver. 
"I  wish  Grandcourt  didn't  lie  so  near  it." 

Dorothy  Awdrey  raised  her  delicate  brows  in 
surprise. 

"Why,  the  Plain  13  the  charm  of  Grandcourt," 
she  exclaimed.  "Surely,  Margaret,  you  are  not 
going  to  get  nervous  and  fanciful,  just  because  a 
murder  was  committed  on  the  Plain." 

"  Oh,  no !"  Margaret  started  to  her  feet.  "  Ex 
cuse  me,  Dorothy,  I  see  Robert  coming  up  the 
avenue." 

"  So  he  is.  Stay  where  you  are,  and  I'll  run  and 
get  the  news." 

"No,  please  let  me  go." 

"Margaret,  you  are  ill." 

"I  am  all  right,"  replied  Margaret. 

She  ran  swiftly  down  the  avenue. 

Awdrey  saw  her,  and  stopped  until  she  came  up 
to  him. 

"  Well?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

He  put  both  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and 
looked  steadily  into  her  eyes. 

"The  verdict,"  she  said.     "Quick,  the  verdict." 

"  Guilty,  Maggie ;  but  they  have  strongly  recom- 


93  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

mended  him  to  mercy.  Maggie,  Maggie,  my  dar 
ling,  what  is  it?" 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  hid  her 
trembling  face  against  his  breast. 

"  I  can't  help  it, "  she  said.  u  It  is  the  eve  of  our 
wedding-day.  Oh,  I  feel  sick  with  terror — sick 
with  sorrow." 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

AETHUB  EUMSEY,  M.D.,  F.E.C.S.,  was  one  of  the 

most  remarkable  men  of  his  time.  He  was  un 
married,  and  lived  in  a  large  house  in  Harley 
Street,  where  he  saw  many  patients  daily.  He 
was  on  the  staff  of  more  than  one  of  the  big  Lon 
don  hospitals,  and  one  or  two  mornings  in  each 
week  had  to  be  devoted  to  this  public  sendee, 
which  occupies  so  much  of  the  life  of  a  busy  and 
popular  doctor.  Eumsey  was  not  only  a  clever, 
all-round  man,  but  he  was  also  a  specialist.  The 
word  nerve — that  queer  complex  word,  with  its 
many  hidden  meanings,  its  daily  and  hourly  fresh 
renderings — that  word,  which  belongs  especially  to 
the  end  of  our  century,  he  seized  with  a  grip  of 
psychological  intensity,  and  made  it  his  principal 
study.  By  slow  degrees  and  years  of  patient  toil 
he  began  to  understand  the  nerve  power  in  man. 
From  the  study  of  the  nerves  to  the  study  of  the 
source  of  all  nerves,  aches  and  pains,  joys  and  de 
lights,  the  human  brain,  was  an  easy  step.  Eum 
sey  was  a  brain  specialist.  It  began  to  be  re 
ported  of  him,  not  only  in  the  profession,  but 
among  that  class  of  patients  who  must  flock  to 
such  a  man,  when  he  had  performed  wonderful 
and  extraordinary  cures,  that  to  him  was  given 
insight  almost  superhuman.  It  was  said  of 

03 


94  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Eumsey  that  lie  could  read  motives  and  could  also 
unravel  the  most  complex  problems  of  the  psycho 
logical  world. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  Margaret  Douglas 
found  herself  the  bride  of  Robert  Awdrey.  These 
five  years  had  been  mostly  spent  by  the  pair  in 
London.  Being  well  off,  Awdrey  had  taken  a  good 
house  in  a  fashionable  quarter.  He  and  Margaret 
began  to  entertain,  and  were  popular  from  the  very 
first,  in  their  own  somewhat  large  circle.  They 
were  now  the  parents  of  one  beautiful  child,  a  boy, 
and  the  outside  world  invariably  spoke  of  them  as 
a  prosperous  and  a  very  happy  couple. 

Everett  did  not  expiate  his  supposed  crime  by 
death.  The  plea  of  the  jury  for  mercy  resulted  in 
fourteen  years'  penal  servitude.  Such  a  sentence 
meant,  of  course,  a  living  death ;  he  had  quite  sunk 
out  of  ken  —  almost  out  of  memory.  Except  in 
the  heart  of  his  mother  and  in  the  tender  heart  of 
Margaret  Awdrey,  this  young  man,  whose  career 
had  promised  to  be  so  bright,  so  satisfactory,  such 
a  blessing  to  all  who  knew  him,  was  completely 
forgotten. 

In  his  mother's  heart,  of  course,  he  was  safely 
enshrined,  and  Margaret  also,  although  she  had 
never  spoken  to  him,  and  never  saw  his  face  until 
the  day  of  the  trial,  still  vividly  remembered  him. 

When  her  honeymoon  was  over  and  she  found 
herself  settled  in  London,  one  of  her  first  acts  was 
to  seek  out  Mrs.  Everett,  and  to  make  a  special 
friend  of  the  forlorn  and  unhappy  widow. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  95 

Both  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Everett  soon  found  that 
they  had  a  strong  bond  of  sympathy  between  them. 
They  both  absolutely  believed  in  Frank  Everett's 
innocence.  The  subject,  however,  was  too  painful 
to  the  elder  woman  to  be  often  alluded  to,  but 
knowing  what  was  in  Margaret's  heart  she  took  a 
great  fancy  to  her,  always  spoke  to  her  with  affec 
tion,  took  a  real  interest  in  her  concerns,  and  was 
often  a  visitor  at  her  home. 

Four  years  after  the  wedding  the  elder  Squire 
died.  He  was  found  one  morning  dead  in  his  bed, 
having  passed  peacefully  and  painlessly  away. 
Awdrey  was  now  the  owner  of  Grandcourt,  but  for 
some  reason  which  he  could  not  explain,  even  to 
himself,  he  did  not  care  to  spend  much  time  at  the 
old  place — Margaret  was  often  there  for  months  at 
a  time,  but  Awdrey  preferred  London  to  the  Court, 
and  a  week  at  a  time  was  the  longest  period  he 
would  ever  spend  under  the  old  roof.  Both  his 
sisters  were  now  married  and  had  homes  of  their 
own — the  place  in  consequence  began  to  grow  a  lit 
tle  into  disuse,  although  Margaret  did  what  she 
could  for  the  tenantry,  and  whenever  she  was  at  the 
Court  was  extremely  popular  with  her  neighbors. 
But  she  did  not  think  it  right  to  leave  her  husband 
long  alone — he  clung  to  her  a  good  deal,  seeking 
her  opinion  more  and  more  as  the  months  and 
years  went  by,  and  leaning  upon  her  to  an  extra 
ordinary  extent  for  a  young  and  clever  man. 

Awdrey  had  grown  exceptionally  old  for  his  age 
in.  the  five  years  since  his  marriage.  He  was  only 


96  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

twenty-six,  but  some  white  streaks  were  already  to 
be  found  in  his  thick  hair,  and  several  wrinkles 
were  perceptible  round  his  dark  gray  eyes.  He 
had  not  gone  into  Parliament — he  had  not  distin 
guished  himself  by  any  literary  work.  His  own 
ambitious  dreams  and  his  wife's  longings  for  him 
faded  one  by  one  out  of  sight.  He  was  a  gentle, 
kindly  mannered  man — generous  with  his  money, 
sympathetic  up  to  a  certain  point  over  every  tale  of 
woe,  but  there  was  a  curious  want  of  energy  about 
him,  and  as  the  days  and  months  flew  by,  Mar 
garet's  sense  of  trouble,  which  always  lay  near  her 
heart,  unaccountably  deepened. 

The  great  specialist,  Arthur  Bumsey,  was  about 
to  give  a  dinner.  It  was  his  custom  to  give  one 
once  a  fortnight  during  the  London  season.  To 
these  dinners  he  not  only  invited  his  own  friends 
and  the  more  favored  among  his  patients,  but  many 
celebrated  men  of  science  and  literature ;  a  few  also 
of  the  better  sort  of  the  smart  people  of  society 
were  to  be  met  on  these  occasions.  Although  there 
was  no  hostess,  Rumsey's  dinners  were  popular, 
his  invitations  were  always  eagerly  accepted,  and 
the  people  who  met  each  other  at  his  house  often 
spoke  afterward  of  these  occasions  as  specially  de 
lightful. 

In  short,  the  dinners  partook  of  that  intellectual 
quality  which  makes,  to  quote  an  old-world  phrase, 
"the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul."  On 
Rumsey 's  evenings,  the  forgotten  art  of  conversation 
seemed  once  again  to  struggle  to  re-assert  itself, 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  97 

Kobert  Awdrey  and  his  wife  were  often  among 
the  favored  guests,  and  were  to  be  present  at  this 
special  dinner.  Margaret  was  a  distant  cousin  of 
the  great  physician,  and  shortly  after  her  arrival 
in  London  had  consulted  him  about  her  husband. 
She  had  told  him  all  about  the  family  history,  and 
the  curious  hereditary  taint  which  had  shown  it 
self  from  generation  to  generation  in  certain  mem 
bers  of  the  men  of  the  house.  He  had  listened 
gravely,  and  with  much  interest,  saying  very  little 
at  the  time,  and  endeavoring  by  every  means  in  his 
power  to  soothe  the  anxieties  of  the  young  wife. 

"  The  doom  you  dread  may  never  fall  upon  your 
husband,"  he  said  finally.  "The  slight  inertia  of 
mind  which  he  complains  of  is  probably  more  due 
to  nervous  fear  than  to  anything  else.  It  is  a  pity 
he  is  so  well  off.  If  he  had  to  work  for  his  living, 
he  would  soon  use  his  brain  to  good  and  healthy 
purpose.  That  fiat  which  fell  upon  Adam  is  in 
reality  a  blessing  in  disguise.  There  is  no  surer 
cure  for  most  of  the  fads  and  fancies  of  the  present 
day  than  the  commai  id  which  ordains  to  man  that 
'In  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  eat  bread.'  ' 

Margaret's  anxious  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
great  doctor  while  he  was  speaking. 

"  Your  husband  must  make  the  best  of  his  cir 
cumstances,"  he  continued,  in  a  cheerful  tone. 
"  Crowd  occupation  upon  him ;  get  him  to  take  up 
any  good  intellectual  work  with  strength  and  vigor. 
If  you  see  he  is  really  tired  out,  do  not  over-worry 
lum.  Get  him  to  travel  with  you;  get  him  to  read 
9 


98  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

books  with  real  stuff  in  them;  occupy  his  mind  at 
any  risk.  When  he  begins  to  forget  serious  mat 
ters  it  will  be  time  enough  to  come  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  the  hereditary  curse  has  descended  upon 
him.  Up  to  the  present  he  has  never  forgotten 
anything  of  consequence,  has  he?" 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Margaret 
Then  she  added,  with  a  half-smile,  "The  small 
lapse  of  memory  which  I  am  about  to  mention,  you 
will  probably  consider  beneath  your  notice,  never 
theless  it  has  irritated  my  husband  to  a  strange 
degree.  You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  tragic 
murder  of  Horace  Frere,  which  took  place  on 
Salisbury  Plain  a  few  weeks  before  our  wed 
ding?" 

Rumsey  nodded. 

"  On  the  night  of  the  murder  my  husband  lost 
Ms  favorite  walking-stick.  He  has  worried  cease 
lessly  over  that  small  fact,  referring  to  it  constantly 
and  always  complaining  of  a  certain  numbness  in 
the  back  of  his  head  when  he  does  so.  The  fact  is 
he  met  the  unfortunate  man  who  was  murdered 
early  in  the  afternoon.  At  that  time  he  had  his 
stick  with  him.  He  can  never  recall  anything 
about  it  from  that  moment,  nor  has  he  seen  it  from 
then  to  now." 

The  doctor  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"There  is  little  doubt,"  he  said,  "that  the  fear 
that  the  doom  of  his  house  may  fasten  upon  him 
has  affected  your  husband's  nerves.  The  lapse  of 
memory  to  which  you  refer  means  nothing  at  all. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  99 

Keep  him  occupied,  Mrs.  Awdrey,  keep  him  occu 
pied.  That  is  my  best  advice  to  you." 

Margaret  went  away  feeling  reassured  and  al 
most  happy,  but  since  the  date  of  that  conversa 
tion  Rumsey  never  forgot  Awdrey 's  queer  case. 
He  possessed  that  extraordinary  and  perfect  mem 
ory  himself,  which  does  not  allow  the  smallest  de 
tail,  however  apparently  unimportant,  to  escape 
observation,  and  often  as  he  talked  to  his  guest 
across  his  dinner  table,  he  observed  him  with  a 
keenness  of  interest  which  he  could  himself  scarcely 
account  for. 

On  this  particular  evening  more  guests  than 
usual  were  assembled  at  the  doctor's  house.  Six 
teen  people  had  sat  down  to  dinner  and  several 
fresh  arrivals  were  expected  in-  the  evening. 
Among  the  dining  guests  was  Mrs.  Everett.  She 
was  a  tall,  handsome  woman  of  about  forty-five 
years  of  age.  Her  hair  was  snow-white  and  was 
piled  high  up  over  her  head — her  face  was  of  a 
pale  olive  hue,  with  regular  features,  and  very 
large,  piercing,  dark  eyes.  The  eyebrows  were 
well  arched  and  somewhat  thickly  marked — they 
were  still  raven  black,  and  afforded  a  striking  con 
trast  to  the  lovely  thick  hair  which  shone  like  a 
mass  of  silver  above  her  brow. 

Everett's  mother  always  wore  black,  but,  curious 
to  relate,  she  had  discarded  widow's  weeds  soon 
after  her  son's  incarceration.  Before  that  date  she 
had  been  in  character,  and  had  also  lived  the  life 
of  an  ordinary,  affectionate,  and  thoroughly  ami- 


100  DR.  RVMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

able  woman.  Keen  as  her  sorrow  in  parting  with 
the  husband  of  her  youth  was,  she  contrived  to 
weave  a  happy  nest  in  which  her  heart  could  take 
shelter,  in  the  passionate  love  which  she  gave  to 
her  only  son.  But  from  the  date  of  his  trial  and 
verdict,  the  woman's  whole  character,  the  very  ex 
pression  on  her  face,  had  altered.  Her  eyes  had 
now  a  watchful  and  intent  look.  She  seemed  like 
some  one  who  had  set  a  mission  before  herself. 
She  had  the  look  of  one  who  lived  for  a  hidden  pur 
pose.  She  no  longer  eschewed  society,  but  went 
into  it  even  more  frequently  than  her  somewhat 
slender  means  afforded.  She  made  many  new  ac 
quaintances  and  was  always  eager  to  win  the  con 
fidence  of  those  who  cared  to  confide  in  her.  Her 
own  story  she  never  touched  upon,  but  she  gave  a 
curious  kind  of  watchful  sympathy  to  others  which 
was  not  without  its  charm. 

On  this  particular  night,  the  widow's  eyes  were 
brighter  and  more  restless  than  usual.  Dr.  Bum- 
sey  knew  all  about  her  story,  and  had  often  coun^ 
selled  her  with  regard  to  her  present  attitude 
toward  society  at  large. 

"My  boy  is  innocent,"  she  had  said  many  times 
to  the  doctor.  "  The  object  of  my  life  is  to  prove 
this.  I  will  quietly  wait,  I  will  do  nothing  rash, 
but  it  is  my  firm  conviction  that  I  shall  yet  be  per 
mitted  to  find  and  expose  the  man  who  killed 
Horace  Frere." 

Eumsey  had  warned  her  as  to  the  peril  which 
she  ran  in  fostering  too  keenly  a  fixed  idea — ha 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  101 

had  taken  pains  to  give  her  psychological  reasons 
for  the  danger  which  she  incurred — but  nothing  he 
could  say  or  do  could  alter  the  bias  of  her  mind. 
Her  fixed  and  unwavering  assurance  that  her  boy 
was  absolutely  innocent  could  not  be  imperilled  by 
any  words  which  man  could  speak. 

"  If  I  had  even  seen  my  boy  do  the  murder  I 
should  still  believe  it  to  be  a  vision  of  my  own 
brain,"  she  had  said  once,  and  after  that  Rumsey 
had  ceased  to  try  to  guide  her  thoughts  into  a 
healthier  channel. 

On  this  particular  night  when  the  doctor  came 
up-stairs  after  wine,  accompanied  by  the  rest  of  the 
men  of  the  party,  Mrs.  Everett  seemed  to  draw  him 
to  her  side  by  her  watchful  and  excited  glances. 

There  was  something  about  the  man  which  could 
never  withstand  an  appeal  of  human  need — he 
went  straight  now  to  the  widow's  side  as  a  needle 
is  attracted  to  a  magnet. 

"Well,"  he  said,  drawing  a  chair  forward,  and 
seating  himself  so  as  almost  to  face  her. 

"You  guessed  that  I  wanted  to  see  you?"  she 
said  eagerly. 

"I  looked  at  you  and  that  was  sufficient,"  he 
said. 

"When  can  you  give  me  an  interview?"  she  re 
plied. 

"  Do  you  want  to  visit  me  as  a  patient?" 

"I  do  not — that  is,  not  in  the  ordinary  sense. 
I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  have  a  story  to 
relate,  and  when  it  is  told  I  should  like  to  get 


102  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

your  verdict  on  a  certain  peculiar  case — in  short,  1 
believe  I  have  got  a  clue,  if  only  a  slight  one,  to 
the  unravelling  of  the  mystery  of  my  life — you 
quite  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  replied  Dr.  Rumsey  in  a 
gentle  voice,  "  but,  my  dear  lady,  I  am  not  a  de 
tective." 

"  Not  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but  surely  as  far  as 
the  complex  heart  is  concerned." 

Dr.  Rumsey  held  up  his  hand. 

"We  need  not  go  into  that,"  he  said. 

"No,  we  will  not.  May  I  see  you  to-morrow 
for  a  few  minutes?" 

The  doctor  consulted  his  note-book. 

"  I  cannot  see  you  as  a  patient, "  he  said,  "  but 
as  a  friend  it  is  possible.  Can  you  be  here  at 
eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning?  I  breakfast  at 
eight — my  breakfast  generally  occupies  ten  min 
utes — that  time  is  at  your  disposal." 

"I  will  be  with  you.  Thank  you  a  thousand 
times,"  she  replied. 

Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  exultation.  The 
doctor  favored  her  with  a  keen  glance  and  moved 
aside.  A  few  minutes  later  he_  found  himself  in 
Margaret  Awdrey's  vicinity.  Margaret  was  now  a 
very  beautiful  woman.  As  a  girl  she  had  been 
lovely,  but  her  early  matronhood  had  developed 
her  charms,  had  added  to  her  stateliness,  and  had 
brought  out  many  new  and  fresh  expressions  in 
her  mobile  and  lovely  face. 

As  Eumsey  approached  her  side,  she  was  in 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  103 

act  of  taking  leave  of  an  old  friend  of  her  hus 
band's,  who  was  going  away  early.  The  Doctor 
was  therefore  able  to  watch  her  for  a  minute  with 
out  her  observing  him — then  she  turned  slightly, 
saw  him,  flushed  vividly,  and  went  eagerly  and 
swiftly  to  his  side. 

"  Dr.  Rumsey, "  said  Margaret,  "  I  know  this  is 
not  the  place  to  make  appointments,  but  I  am  anx 
ious  to  see  you  on  the  subject  of  my  husband's 
health.  How  soon  can  you  manage " 

"I  can  make  an  appointment  for  to-morrow,"  he 
interrupted.  "  Be  with  me  at  half-past  one.  I  can 
give  you  half  an  hour  quite  undisturbed  then." 

She  did  not  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  raised  fully 
to  his  face.  Those  dark,  deep  eyes  so  full  of  the 
noblest  emotions  which  can  stir  the  human  soul, 
looked  at  him  now  with  a  pathos  that  touched  his 
heart.  He  moved  away  to  talk  to  other  friends, 
but  the  thought  of  Margaret  Awdrey  returned  to 
him  many  times  during  the  ensuing  night. 


CHAPTER  X. 

AT  the  appointed  hour  on  the  following  morning 
Mrs.  Everett  was  shown  into  Dr.  Eumsey's  pres 
ence.  She  found  him  in  his  cosy  breakfast-room, 
in  the  act  of  helping  himself  to  coffee. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  as  he  placed  a  chair  for  her, 
B  what  an  excellent  thing  this  punctuality  is  in  a 
woman.  Sit  down,  pray.  You  shall  have  your 
full  ten  minutes — the  clock  is  only  on  the  stroke 
of  eight." 

Mrs.  Everett  looked  too  disturbed  and  anxious 
even  to  smile.  She  untied  her  bonnet-strings, 
threw  back  her  mantle,  and  stared  straight  at  Dr. 
Eumsey. 

"No  coffee,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  break 
fasted  long  ago.  Dr.  Eumsey,  I  am  nearly  wild 
with  excitement  and  anxiety.  I  told  you  long  ago, 
did  I  not,  that  a  day  would  come  when  I  should 
get  a  clue  which  might  lead  to  establishing  my 
boy's" — she  wet  her  lips — "  my  only  boy's  inno 
cence?  Nothing  that  can  happen  now  will  ever,  of 
course,  repair  what  he  has  lost — his  lost  youth, 
his  lost  healthy  outlook  on  life — but  to  set  him 
free,  even  now!  To  give  him  his  liberty  once 
again!  To  feel  the  clasp  of  his  hand  on  mine! 
Ah,  I  nearly  go  mad  at  times  with  longing,  but 

10* 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  105 

thank  God,  thank  the  Providence  which  is  above 
us  all,  I  do  believe  I  have  found  a  clue  at  last." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  said  the  doctor,  in  a  kind 
voice.  "I  know,"  he  added,  "you  will  make  your 
story  as  brief  as  possible." 

"I  will,  my  good  friend,"  she  replied.  She 
stood  up  now,  her  somewhat  long  arms  hung  at 
her  sides,  she  turned  her  face  in  all  its  intense 
purpose  full  upon  the  doctor. 

"You  know  my  restless  nature,"  she  continued. 
K I  can  seldom  or  never  sit  still — even  my  sleep  is 
broken  by  terrible  dreams.  All  the  energy  which 
I  possess  is  fixed  upon  one  thought,  and  one  only 
—I  want  to  find  the  real  murderer  of  Horace 
Frere." 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Rumsey. 

"A  fortnight  ago  I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  a 
queer  thing.  I  determined  to  visit  Grandcourt — • 
I  mean  the  village  of  that  name." 

The  doctor  started. 

"You  are  surprised?"  said  Mrs.  Everett; 
"nevertheless  I  can  account  for  my  longings." 

"You  need  not  explain.     I  quite  understand." 

"  I  believe  you  do.  I  felt  drawn  to  the  place — 
to  the  Tnn  where  my  son  stayed,  to  the  neighbor 
hood.  I  travelled  down  to  Grandcourt  without 
announcing  my  intention  to  any  one,  and  arrived  at 
the  Inn  just  as  the  dusk  was  setting  in.  The  land 
lord,  Armitage  by  name,  came  out  to  interview  me. 
I  told  him  who  I  was.  He  looked  much  disturbed, 
and  by  no  means  pleased.  I  asked  him  if  he 


106  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

would  take  me  in.  He  went  away  to  consult  hia 
wife.  She  followed  him  after  a  moment  into  the 
porch  with  a  scared  face. 

" '  I  wonder,  ma'am,  that  you  like  to  come  here,' 
she  said. 

" '  I  come  for  one  purpose,'  I  replied.  *  I  want 
to  see  the  spot  where  Horace  Frere  met  his  death. 
I  am  drawn  to  this  place  by  the  greatest  agony 
which  has  ever  torn  a  mother's  heart.  Will  you 
take  me  in,  and  will  you  give  me  the  room  in  which 
my  son  slept?' 

"  The  landlady  looked  at  me  in  anything  but  a 
friendly  manner.  Her  husband  whispered  some 
thing  to  her — after  a  time  her  brow  cleared — she 
nodded  to  him,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  given 
to  understand  that  my  son's  old  room  would  be  at 
my  disposal.  I  took  possession  of  it  that  evening, 
and  my  meals  were  served  to  me  in  the  little  par 
lor  where  my  boy  and  the  unfortunate  Horace 
Frere  had  lived  together. 

B  The  next  day  I  went  out  alone  at  an  early  hour 
to  visit  the  Plain.  I  had  never  ventured  on  Salis 
bury  Plain  before.  The  day  was  a  gloomy  and 
stormy  one.  There  were  constant  showers  of  rain, 
and  I  was  almost  wet  through  by  the  time  I 
reached  my  destination.  I  had  just  got  upon  the 
borders  of  the  Plain  when  I  saw  a  young  woman 
walking  a  little  ahead  of  me.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  gait  which  I  seemed  to  recognize,  al 
though  at  first  I  had  only  a  dim  idea  that  I  had 
ever  seen  her  before.  Hurrying  my  footsteps  I 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  107 

came  up  to  her,  passed  her,  and  as  I  did  so  looked 
her  full  in  the  face.  I  started  then  and  stopped 
short.  She  was  the  girl  who  had  seen  the  murder 
committed,  and  who  had  given  evidence  of  the  most 
damnatory  kind  against  my  son  on  the  day  of  the 
trial.  In  that  one  swift  glance  I  saw  that  she  was 
much  altered.  .  She  had  been  a  remarkably  pretty 
girl.  She  had  now  nearly  lost  all  her  comeliness 
of  appearance.  Her  face  was  thin,  her  dress  negli 
gent  and  untidy,  on  her  brow  there  was  a  sullen 
frown.  When  she  saw  me  she  also  stood  still, 
her  eyes  dilated  with  a  curious  expression  of  fear. 

" '  Who  are  you?'  she  said,  with  a  pant. 

11 '  I  am  Mrs.  Everett,'  I  replied,  slowly.  '  I  am 
the  mother  of  the  man  who  once  lodged  in  your 
uncle's  house,  and  who  is  now  expiating  the  crime 
of  another  at  Portland  prison. ' 

"  She  had  turned  red  at  first,  now  she  became 
white. 

" '  And  your  name, '  I  continued,  *  is  Hetty  Armi- 
tage. ' 

" '  Why  do  you  say  that  your  son  is  expatiating 
the  crime  of  another?'  she  asked. 

" '  Because  I  am  his  mother.  I  have  looked  into 
his  heart,  and  there  is  no  murder  there.  But  tell 
me,  is  not  your  name  Hetty  Armitage?' 

" '  It  is  not  Armitage  now, '  she  answered.  '  I  am 
married.  I  live  about  three  miles  from  Grand- 
court,  over  in  that  direction.  I  am  going  home 
now.  My  husband's  name  is  Vincent.  He  is  a 
farmer, ' 


108  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"'You  don't  look  too  well  off,'  I  said,  for  1 
noticed  her  shabby  dress  and  run-to-seed  appear 
ance. 

"'These  are  hard  times  for  farmers,'  she  an 
swered. 

a '  Have  you  children?'  I  asked. 

" '  No,'  she  replied  fiercely,  *  I  am  glad  to  say  I 
bavenot.' 

" '  "Why  are  you  glad?'  I  asked.  '  Surely  a  child 
is  the  crown  of  a  married  woman's  bliss.' 

" '  It  would  not  be  to  me, '  she  cried.  '  My  heart 
is  full  to  the  brim.  I  have  no  room  for  a  child  in 
it.' 

"'A  full  heart  generally  means  happiness,'  I 
said.  *Are  you  happy?' 

*  She  gave  me  a  queer  glance. 

"'No,  ma'am,'  she  answered,  'my  heart  is  full 
of  bitterness,  of  sorrow.'  Her  eyes  looked  quite 
wild.  She  pressed  one  of  her  hands  to  her  fore 
head, — then  stepping  out,  she  half  turned  round 
to  me. 

"'I  wish  you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Everett,'  she 
said.  '  My  way  lies  across  here.' 

"'  Stay  a  moment  before  you  leave  me,'  I  said. 
'I  am  coming  to  this  plain  on  a  mission  which  you 
perhaps  can  guess.  If  you  are  poor  you  will  not 
despise  half  a  sovereign.  I'll  give  you  half  a 
sovereign  if  you'll  show  me  the  exact  spot  where 
the  murder  was  committed. ' 

"  She  turned  from  white  to  red,  and  from  red  to 
white  again. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  109 

" '  I  don't  like  tliat  spot, '  she  said.  '  That  night 
was  a  terrible  night  to  me ;  my  nerves  ain't  what 
they  were — I  sleep  bad,  and  sometimes  I  dream. 
Many  and  many  a  time  I've  seen  that  murder  com 
mitted  over  again.  I  have  seen  the  look  on  the 
face  of  the  murdered  man,  and  the  look  on  the  face 
of  the  man  who  did  it — Oh,  my  God,  I  have 
seen ' 

She  pressed  her  two  hands  hard  against  her  eyes. 

"I  waited  quietly  until  she  had  recovered  her 
emotion ;  then  I  held  out  the  little  gold  coin. 

" '  You  will  take  me  to  the  spot?'  I  asked. 

"  She  clutched  the  coin  suddenly  in  her  hand. 

" '  This  will  buy  what  I  live  for, '  she  cried,  with 
passion.  '  I  can  drown  thought  with  this.  Come 
along,  ma'am,  we  are  not  very  far  from  the  place 
here.  I'll  take  you,  and  then  go  on  home.' 

"She  started  off,  walking  in  front  of  me,  and 
keeping  well  ahead.  She  went  quickly,  and  yet 
with  a  sort  of  tremulous  movement,  as  though  she 
were  not  quite  certain  of  herself.  We  crossed  the 
Plain  not  far  from  the  Court.  I  saw  the  house  in 
the  distance,  and  the  curling  smoke  which  rose 
up  out  of  the  trees. 

" '  Don't  walk  so  fast, '  I  said.  *I  am  an  old  wo 
man,  and  you  take  my  breath  away. '  She  slack 
ened  her  steps,  but  very  unwillingly. 

" '  The  family  are  not  often  at  the  Court?'  I 
queried. 

"'No,'  she  answered  with  a  start — 'since  the 
old  Squire  died  the  place  has  been  most  shut  up.' 


110  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

u '  I  happen  to  know  the  present  Squire  and  his 
wife,'  I  said. 

"  She  flushed  when  I  said  this,  gave  me  a  furtive 
glance,  and  then  pressing  one  hand  to  her  left  side, 
said  abruptly : 

" '  If  you  know  you  can  tell  me  summ'at — he  is 
well,  is  he?' 

"  *  They  are  both  well, '  I  answered,  surprised  at 
the  tone  of  her  voice.  'I  should  judge  them  to  be 
a  happy  couple. ' 

" '  I  thank  the  good  God  that  Mr.  Robert  is 
happy,'  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Once  again  she  hurried  her  footsteps ;  at  last 
she  stood  still  on  a  rising  knoll  of  ground. 

"'Do  you  see  this  clump  of  alders?'  she  said. 
*  It  was  here  I  stood,  just  on  this  spot — I  was 
sheltered  by  the  alders,  and  even  if  the  night  had 
not  been  so  dark  they  would  never  have  noticed 
me.  Over  there  to  your  right  it  was  done.  You 
don't  want  me  to  stay  any  longer  now,  ma'am, 
do  you?' 

" '  You  can  go  when  I  have  asked  you  one  or 
two  questions.  You  stood  here,  you  say — just 
here?' 

" '  Just  here,  ma'am,'  she  answered. 

" '  And  the  murder  was  committed  there?' 

"'Yes,  where  the  grass  seems  to  grow  a  bit 
greener — you  notice  it,  don't  you,  just  there,  to 
your  right. ' 

" '  I  see, '  I  replied  with  a  shudder,  which  I  could 
not  repress.  '  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how  it  was 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  Ill 

that  you  happened  to  be  out  of  your  bed  at  such  a 
late  hour  at  night?' 

"  She  looked  very  sullen,  and  set  her  lips  tightly. 
I  gazed  full  at  her,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

" '  The  man  whose  blood  was  shed  was  my  lover — • 
we  had  just  had  a  quarrel, '  she  said,  at  last. 

" '  What  about?' 

" '  That's  my  secret,'  she  replied. 

" '  How  is  it  you  did  not  mention  the  fact  of  the 
quarrel  at  the  trial?'  I  asked. 

"  She  looked  full  up  at  me. 

"'I  was  not  asked,'  she  answered;  'that's  my 
secret,  and  I  don't  tell  it  to  anybody.  It  was 
here  I  stood,  just  where  your  feet  are  planted,  and 
I  saw  it  done — the  moon  came  out  for  a  minute, 
and  I  saw  everything — even  to  the  look  on  the  dead 
man's  face  and  the  look  on  the  face  of  the  man 
who  took  his  life.  I  saw  it  all.  I  ain't  been  the 
same  woman  since.' 

"'I  am  not  surprised,'  I  replied.  'You  may 
leave  me  when  I  have  said  one  thing. ' 

" '  What  is  that,  ma'am?' 

"  She  raised  her  dark  eyes.  I  saw  fear  in  their 
depths. 

" '  You  saw  two  men  that  night,  Hetty  Vincent, ' 
I  said — 'one,  the  man  who  was  murdered,  was 
Horace  Frere,  but  the  other  man,  as  there  is  a  God 
above,  was  not  Frank  Everett.  I  am  speaking  the 
truth — you  can  go  now. ' 

"  My  words  seemed  forced  from  me,  Dr.  Rumsey, 
but  the  effect  was  terrifying.  The  wretched  crea/- 


112  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

ture  fell  on  her  knees — she  clung  to  my  dress, 
covering  her  face  with  a  portion  of  the  mantle 
which  I  was  wearing. 

" '  Good  God,  why  do  you  say  that?'  she  gasped. 
'  How  do  you  know?  Who  has  told  you?  Why 
do  you  say  awful  words  of  that  sort?' 

"  Her  excitement  made  me  calm.  I  stood  per 
fectly  silent,  but  with  my  heart  beating  with  the 
queerest  sense  of  exultation  and  victory. 

" '  Get  up, '  I  said.  She  rose  trembling  to  her 
feet.  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

" '  You  have  something  to  confess, '  I  said. 

"  She  looked  at  me  again  and  burst  out  laughing. 
*  What  a  fool  I  made  of  myself  just  now!'  she 
said.  '  I  have  nothing  to  confess ;  what  could  I 
have?  You  spoke  so  solemn  and  the  place  is 
queer — it  always  upsets  me.  I'll  go  now.'  She 
backed  a  few  steps  away. 

"  *  I  saw  two  men  on  the  Plain, '  she  said  then, 
raising  her  voice,  'one  was  Horace  Frere — the 
other  was  your  son,  Frank  Everett.'  Before  I 
could  add  another  word  she  took  to  her  heels  and 
was  quickly  out  of  sight. 

"  I  returned  to  the  Tnn  and  questioned  Armitage 
and  his  wife.  I  did  not  dare  fo  tell  them  what 
Hetty  had  said  in  her  excitement,  but  I  asked  for 
her  address  and  drove  out  early  the  following 
morning  to  Vincent's  farm  to  visit  her.  I  was 
told  on  my  arrival  that  she  had  left  home  that 
morning ;  that  she  often  did  so  to  visit  a  relation 
at  a  distance,  I  asked  for  the  address,  which  was 


DR.  RUHSEY'S  PATIENT.  113 

given  me  somewhat  unwillingly.  That  night  I 
went  there,  but  Hetty  had  not  arrived  and  nothing 
was  known  about  her.  Since  then  I  have  tried  in 
vain  to  get  any  clue  to  her  present  whereabouts. 
That  is  my  story,  Dr.  Bumsey.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?  Are  the  wild  stories  of  an  excited  and 
over-wrought  woman  worthy  of  careful  considera 
tion?  Is  her  sudden  flight  suspicious,  or- the  re 
verse?  I  anxiously  await  your  verdict." 

Dr.  Bumsey  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe,"  he  said,  then  very 
slowly,  "that  the  words  uttered  by  this  young 
woman  were  merely  the  result  of  overstrung  nerves ; 
remember,  she  was  in  all  probability  in  love  with 
the  man  who  met  his  death  in  so  tragic  a  manner. 
From  the  remarkable  change  which  you  speak  of 
in  her  appearance,  I  should  say  that  her  nerves 
had  been  considerably  shattered  by  the  sight  she 
witnessed,  and  also  by  the  prominent  place  she  was 
obliged  to  take  in  the  trial.  She  has  probably 
dreamt  of  this  thing,  and  dwelt  upon  it  year  in 
and  year  out,  since  it  happened.  Then,  remember, 
you  spoke  in  a  very  startling  manner  and  practi 
cally  accused  her  of  having  committed  perjury  at 
the  time  of  the  trial.  Under  such  circumstances 
and  in  the  surroundings  she  was  in  at  the  time, 
she  would  be  very  likely  to  lose  her  head.  As  to 
her  sudden  disappearance,  I  confess  I  cannot  quite 
understand  it,  unless  her  nervous  system  is  even 
more  shattered  than  you  incline  me  to  believe ;  but, 
stay,— from  words  she  inadvertently  let  drop,  she 

a 


114  DR.  RtTMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Las  evidently  become  addicted  to  drink,  to  opium 
eating,  or  some  such  form  of  self-indulgence.  If 
that  is  the  case  she  would  be  scarcely  responsible 
for  her  actions.  I  do  not  think,  Mrs.  Everett, 
unless  you  can  obtain  further  evidence,  that  there 
is  anything  to  go  upon  in  this." 

"  That  is  3rour  carefully  considered  opinion?" 
"It  is — I  am  sorry  if  it  disappoints  you." 
"  It  does  not  do  that,  for  I  cannot  agree  with  you. " 
Mrs.  Everett  rose  as  she  spoke,  fastened  her 
cloak,  and  tied  her  bonnet-strings. 

"Your   opinion  is    the    cool  one  of  an  acute 
reasoner,  but  also  of  a  person  who  is  outside  the 
circumstances,"  she  continued. 
Kumsey  smiled. 

"  Surely  in  such  a  case  mine  ought  to  be  the  one 
to  be  relied  upon?"  he  queried. 

"No,  for  there  is  such  a  thing  as  mother's  in 
stinct.  I  will  not  detain  you  longer,  Dr.  Kumsey. 
You  have  said  what  I  expected  you  would  say." 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

KUMSEY  began  the  severe  routine  of  his  daily 
work.  He  was  particularly  busy  that  day,  and 
had  many  anxious  cases  to  consider;  it  was  also 
one  of  his  hospital  mornings,  and  his  hospital 
cases  were,  he  considered,  some  of  the  most  impor 
tant  in  his  practice.  Nevertheless  Mrs.  Everett's 
face  and  her  words  of  excitement  kept  flashing 
again  and  again  before  his  memory. 

"  There  is  a  possibility  of  that  woman  losing  her 
senses  if  her  mind  is  not  diverted  into  another 
channel,  and  soon  too,"  he  thought  to  himself. 
"  If  she  allows  her  thoughts  to  dwell  much  longer 
on  this  fixed  idea,  she  will  see  her  son's  murderer 
in  the  face  of  each  man  and  woman  with  whom  she 
comes  in  contact.  Still  there  is  something  queer 
in  her  story — the  young  woman  whom  she  ad 
dressed  on  Salisbury  Plain  was  evidently  the  victim 
of  nervous  terror  to  a  remarkable  extent — can  it  be 
possible  that  she  is  concealing  something?" 

Bumsey  thought  for  a  moment  over  his  last  idea. 
Then  he  dismissed  it  from  his  mind. 

"No,  "he  said  to  himself,  "a  village  girl  could 
not  stand  cross-examination  without  betraying  her 
self.  I  shall  get  as  fanciful  as  Mrs.  Everett  if  I 
dwell  any  longer  upon  this  problem.  After  all 
115 


116  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

there  is  no  problem  to  consider.  Why  not  accept 
the  obvious  fact?  Poor  Everett  killed  his  friend 
in  a  moment  of  strong  irritation — it  was  a  very 
plain  case  of  manslaughter." 

At  the  appointed  hour  Margaret  Awdrey  ap 
peared  on  the  scene.  She  was  immediately  ad 
mitted  into  Dr.  Rumsey's  presence.  He  asked  her 
to  seat  herself,  and  took  a  chair  facing  her.  It 
was  Margaret's  way  to  be  always  very  direct.  She 
was  direct  now,  knowing  that  her  auditor's  time 
was  of  extreme  value. 

"  I  have  not  troubled  you  about  my  husband  for 
some  years,"  she  began. 

"You  have  not,"  he  replied. 

"Do  you  remember  what  I  last  told  you  about 
him?" 

"Perfectly.  But  excuse  me  one  moment;  to 
satisfy  you  I  will  look  up  his  case  in  my  case 
book.  Do  you  remember  the  year  when  you  last 
spoke  to  me  about  him?" 

Margaret  instantly  named  the  date,  not  only  of 
year,  but  of  month.  Dr.  Rumsey  quickly  looked 
up  the  case.  He  laid  his  finger  on  the  open  page 
in  which  he  had  entered  all  particulars,  ran  his 
eyes  rapidly  over  the  notes  he  had  made  at  the 
time,  and  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Awdrey. 

'I  find,  as  I  expected,  that  I  have  forgotten 
nothing,"  he  said.  "I  was  right  in  my  conjec 
tures,  was  I  not?  Tour  husband's  symptoms  were 
due  to  nervous  distress?" 

"I  wish  I  could  say  so,"  replied  Margaret 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  117 

Dr.  Rumsey  slightly  raised  his  brows. 

"Are  there  fresh  symptoms?"  he  asked. 

"  He  is  not  well.  I  must  tell  you  exactly  how 
he  is  affected." 

The  doctor  bent  forward  to  listen.  Margaret 
began  her  story. 

"  Since  the  date  of  our  marriage  there  has  been 
a  very  gradual,  but  also  a  marked  deterioration  in 
my  husband's  character,"  she  said.  "But  until 
lately  he  has  been  in  possession  of  excellent 
physical  health,  his  appetite  has  been  good,  he  has 
been  inclined  for  exercise,  and  has  slept  well.  In 
short,  his  bodily  health  has  been  without  a  flaw. 
Accompanying  this  state  of  physical  well-being 
there  has  been  a  very  remarkable  mental  torpor." 

"Are  you  not  fanciful  on  that  point?"  asked  Dr. 
Rumsey. 

tt  I  am  not.  Please  remember  that  I  have  known 
him  since  he  was  a  boy.  As  a  boy  he  was  particu 
larly  ambitious,  full  of  all  sorts  of  schemes  for  the 
future — many  of  these  schemes  were  really  daring 
and  original.  He  did  well  at  school,  and  better 
than  well  at  Balliol.  When  we  became  engaged 
his  strong  sense  of  ambition  was  quite  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  traits  of  his  character.  He  always 
spoke  of  doing  much  with  his  life.  The  idea  was 
that  as  soon  as  possible  he  was  to  enter  the  House, 
and  he  earnestly  hoped  that  when  that  happy  event 
took  place  he  would  make  his  mark  there.  One 
by  one  all  these  thoughts,  all  these  hopes  and 
aims,  have  dropped  away  from  his  mind;  each 


118  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

year  has  robbed  him  of  something,  until  at  last  he 
has  come  to  that  pass  when  even  books  fail  to 
arouse  any  interest  in  him.  He  sits  for  many 
hours  absolutely  doing  nothing,  not  even  sleeping, 
but  gazing  straight  before  him  into  vacancy.  Our 
little  son  is  almost  the  only  person  who  has  any 
power  to  rouse  him.  He  is  devoted  to  the  child, 
but  his  love  even  for  little  Arthur  is  tempered  by 
that  remarkable  torpor — he  never  plays  with  the 
boy,  who  is  a  particularly  strong-willed,  spirited 
child,  but  likes  to  sit  with  him  on  his  knee,  the 
child's  arms  clasped  round  his  neck.  He  has 
trained  the  little  fellow  to  sit  perfectly  still.  The 
child  is  devoted  to  his  father,  and  would  do  any 
thing  for  him.  As  the  years  have  gone  on,  my 
husband  has  become  more  and  more  a  man  of  fsw 
words — I  now  believe  him  to  be  a  man  of  few 
thoughts — of  late  he  has  been  subject  to  moods  of 
deep  depression,  and  although  he  is  my  husband, 
I  often  feel,  truly  as  I  love  him,  that  he  is  more 
like  a  log  than  a  man." 

Tears  dimmed  Margaret's  eyes;  she  hastily 
wiped  them  away. 

"I  would  not  trouble  you  about  all  this,"  she 
continued,  "  but  for  a  change  which  has  taken  place 
within  the  last  few  months.  That  change  directly 
affects  my  husband's  physical  health,  and  as  such 
is  the  case  I  feel  it  right  to  consult  you  about  it. " 

"  Yes,  speak — take  your  own  time — I  am  much 
interested,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  The  change  in  my  husband's  health  of  body 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  119 

fias  also  begun  gradually,"  continued  Mrs.  Awdrey. 
"  You  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  now  the  owner  of 
Grandcourt.  He  has  taken  a  great  dislike  to  the 
place — in  my  opinion,  an  unaccountable  dislike. 
He  absolutely  refuses  to  live  there.  Now  I  am 
fond  of  Grandcourt,  and  our  little  boy  always  seems 
in  better  health  and  spirit  tiiuG  lh-.n  anywhere 
else.  I  take  my  child<lown  to  the  old  family  place 
whenever  I  can  spare  a  week  from  my  husband. 
Last  autumn  I  persuaded  Mr.  Awdrey  with  great 
difficulty  to  accompany  me  to  Grandcourt  for  a 
week.  I  have  never  ceased  to  regret  that  visit." 

"Indeed,  what  occurred?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Apparently  nothing,  and  yet  evidently  a  great 
deal.  When  we  got  into  the  country  Robert's 
apathy  seemed  to  change ;  he  roused  himself  and 
became  talkative  and  even  excitable.  He  took  long 
walks,  and  was  particularly  fond  of  visiting  Salis 
bury  Plain,  that  part  which  lies  to  the  left  of  the 
Court.  He  invariably  took  these  rambles  alone, 
and  often  went  out  quite  late  in  the  evening,  not 
returning  until  midnight. 

"  On  the  last  of  these  occasions  I  asked  him  why 
he  was  so  fond  of  walking  by  himself.  He  said 
with  a  forced  laugh,  and  a  very  queer  look  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  was  engaged  trying  to  find  a  favorite 
walking-stick  which  he  had  lost  years  ago.  He 
laid  such  stress  upon  what  appeared  such  a  trivial 
subject  that  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  smiling. 
When  I  did  so  he  swore  a  terrific  oath,  and  said, 
with  blazing  eyes,  that  life  or  death  depended  upon 


120  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

the  matter  which  I  thought  so  trivial.  Immedi 
ately  after  his  brief  blaze  of  passion  he  became 
moody,  dull,  and  more  inert  than  ever.  The  next 
day  we  left  the  Court.  It  was  immediately  after 
that  visit  that  his  physical  health  began  to  give 
way.  He  lost  his  appetite,  and  for  the  last  few 
months  he  has  been  the  victim  of  a  very  peculiar 
form  of  sleeplessness." 

"  Ah,  insomnia  would  be  bad  in  a  case  like  his." 
said  Dr.  Rumsey. 

"  It  has  had  a  very  irritating  effect  upon  him. 
His  sleeplessness,  like  all  other  symptoms,  came 
on  gradually.  At  the  same  time  he  became  in 
tensely  sensitive  to  the  slightest  noise.  Against  my 
will  he  tried  taking  small  doses  of  chloral,  but  they 
had  the  reverse  of  a  beneficial  effect  upon  him. 
During  the  last  month  he  has,  toward  morning, 
dropped  off  into  uneasy  slumber,  from  which  he 
awakens  bathed  in  perspiration  and  in  a  most 
curious  state  of  terror.  Night  after  night  the  same 
sort  of  thing  occurs.  He  seizes  my  hand  and  asks 
me  in  a  voice  choking  with  emotion  if  I  see  any 
thing  in  the  room.  'Nothing,' I  answer. 

"  'Am  I  awake  or  asleep?'  he -asks  next. 

* '  "Wide  awake,'  I  say  to  him. 

" '  Then  it  is  as  I  fear,'  he  replies.  'I  see  it,  I 
see  it  distinctly.  Can't  you?  Look,  you  must  see 
it  too.  It  is  just  over  there,  in  the  direction  of  the 
window.  Don't  you  see  that  sphere  of  perfect  light  ? 
Don't  you  see  the  picture  in  the  middle?'  He  shiv 
ers  j  the  drops  of  perspiration  fall  from  his  forehead. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  121 

"'Margaret,'  he  says,  'for  God's  sake  look, 
fell  me  that  you  see  it  too.' 

" '  I  see  nothing, '  I  answer  him. 
^  " '  Then  the  vision  is  for  me  alone.  It  haunts 
me.  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  it?  Margaret, 
there  is  a  circle  of  light  over  there — in  the  centre 
a  picture — it  is  the  picture  of  a  murder.  Two  men 
are  in  it — yes,  I  know  now — I  am  looking  at  the 
Plain  near  the  Court — the  moon  is  hidden  behind 
the  clouds — there  are  two  men — they  fight.  God 
in  heaven,  one  man  falls — the  other  bends  over 
him.  I  see  the  face  of  the  fallen  man,  but  I  can 
not  see  the  face  of  the  other.  I  should  rest  con 
tent  if  I  could  only  see  his  face.  Who  is  he, 
Margaret,  who  is  he?' 

"  He  falls  back  on  his  pillow  half-fainting. 

"  This  sort  of  thing  goes  on  night  after  night, 
Dr.  Eumsey.  Toward  morning  the  vision  which 
tortures  my  unhappy  husband  begins  to  fade,  he 
sinks  into  heavy  slumber,  and  awakens  late  in  the 
morning  with  no  memory  whatever  of  the  horrible 
thing  which  has  haunted  him  during  the  hours  of 
darkness. 

"  The  days  which  follow  are  more  full  than  ever 
of  that  terrible  inertia,  and  now  he  begins  to  look 
what  he  really  is,  a  man  stricken  with  an  awful 
doom. 

"The  symptoms  you  speak  of  are  certainly 
alarming,"  said  Dr.  Bumsey,  after  a  pause. 
"They  point  to  a  highly  unsatisfactory  state  of 
the  nerve  centres.  These  symptoms,  joined  to 


122  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

what  you  have  already  told  me  of  the  peculiar 
malady  which  Awdrey  inherits,  make  his  case  a 
grave  one.  Of  course,  I  by  no  means  give  up 
hope,  but  the  recurrence  of  this  vision  nightly  is  a 
singular  symptom.  Does  Awdrey  invariably  speak 
of  not  being  able  to  see  the  face  of  the  man  who 
committed  the  murder?" 

"  Yes,  he  always  makes  a  remark  to  that  effect. 
He  seems  every  night  to  see  the  murdered  man 
lying  on  the  ground  with  his  face  upward,  but  the 
man  who  commits  the  murder  has  his  back  to 
him.  Last  night  he  shrieked  out  in  absolute  terror 
on  the  subject: 

" '  Who  is  the  man?  That  man  on  the  ground  is 
Horace  Frere — he  has  been  hewn  down  in  the  first 
strength  of  his  youth — he  is  a  dead  man.  There 
stands  the  murderer,  with  his  back  to  me,  but  who 
is  he?  Oh,  my  God!'  he  cried  out  with  great 
passion,  'who  is  the  one  who  has  done  this  deed? 
Who  has  murdered  Horace  Frere?  I  would  give 
all  I  possess,  all  that  this  wide  world  contains, 
only  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  his  face. ' 

"  He  sprang  out  of  bed  as  he  spoke,  and  went  a 
step  or  two  in  the  direction  where  he  saw  the 
peculiar  vision,  clasping  his  hands,  and  staring 
straight  before  him  like  a  person  distraught,  and 
almost  out  of  his  mind.  I  followed  him  and  tried 
^>  take  his  hand. 

" '  Eobert !'  I  said,  '  you  know,  don't  you,  quite 
well,  who  murdered  Horace  Frere?  Poor  fellow, 
it  was  not  murder  in  the  ordinary  sense.  Frank 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  123 

Everett  is  the  name  of  the  man  whose  face  you 
cannot  see.  But  it  is  an  old  story  now,  and  you 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  nothing  whatever — 
don't  let  it  dwell  any  longer  on  your  mind.' 

" '  Ha,  but  he  carries  my  stick,'  he  shrieked  out, 
and  then  he  fell  back  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness 
against  the  bed." 

u  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  remembered 
nothing  of  this  agony  in  the  morning?"  queried 
Dr.  Kumsey. 

*  Nothing  whatever.  At  breakfast  he  complained 
of  a  slight  headache  and  was  particularly  dull  and 
moody.  When  I  came  off  to  you  he  h ad  just  started 
for  a  walk  in  the  Park  with  our  little  boy." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  your  husband,  and  to  talk 
to  him,"  said  Dr.  Rumsey,  rising  abruptly.  "Can 
you  manage  to  bring  him  here?" 

"  I  fear  I  cannot,  for  he  does  not  consider  him 
self  ill." 

"  Shall  you  be  at  home  this  evening?" 

"Yes,  we  are  not  going  out  to-night."     • 

"  Then  I'll  drop  in  between  eight  and  nine  on  a 
friendly  visit.  You  must  not  be  alarmed  if  I  try 
to  lead  up  to  the  subject  of  these  nightly  visions, 
for  I  would  infinitely  rather  your  husband  remem 
bered  them  than  that  they  should  quite  slip  from 
his  memory." 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Margaret.  "I  will 
leave  you  alone  with  him  when  you  call  to-night." 

"It  may  be  best  for  me  to  see  him  without  any 
one  else  being  present." 


124  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Margaret  Awdrey  soon  afterward  took  her  leave. 

That  night,  true  to  his  appointment,  Dr.  Hum- 
Bey  made  his  appearance  at  the  Awdrey  s'  house  in 
Seymour  Street.  He  was  shown  at  once  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  Awdrey  was  lying  back  in  a 
deep  chair  on  one  side  of  the  hearth,  and  Mar 
garet  was  softly  playing  a  sonata  of  Beethoven's 
in  the  distance.  She  played  with  great  feeling  and 
power,  and  did  not  use  any  notes.  The  part  of 
the  room  where  she  sat  was  almost  in  shadow, 
but  the  part  round  the  fire  where  Awdrey  had 
placed  himself  was  full  of  bright  light. 

Margaret's  dark  eyes  looked  full  of  painful 
thought  when  the  great  doctor  was  ushered  into 
the  room.  She  did  not  see  him  at  first,  then  she 
noticed  him  and  faltered  in  her  playing.  She  took 
her  fingers  from  the  piano,  and  rose  to  meet  him. 

"  Pray  go  on,  Margaret.  What  are  you  stopping 
for?"  cried  her  husband.  "Nothing  soothes  me 
like  your  music.  Go  on,  go  on.  I  see  the  moon 
light  on  the  trees,  I  feel  the  infinite  peace,  the 
waves  are  beating  on  the  shore,  there  is  rest. "  He 
broke  off  abruptly,  starting  to  his  feet.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Dr.  Eumsey,  I  assure  you  I  did  not 
Bee  you  until  this  moment." 

"I  happened  to  have  half-an-hour  at  my  dis 
posal,  and  thought  I  would  drop  in  for  a  chat," 
said  Dr.  Kumsey  in  his  pleasant  voice. 

Awdrey's  somewhat  fretful  brow  relaxed. 

"You  are  heartily  welcome,"  he  said.  "Have 
you  dined?  Will  you  take  anything?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  125 

"I  have  dined,  and  I  only  want  one  thing,"  said 
Dr.  Bumsey. 

"Pray  name  it;  I'll  ring  for  it  immediately." 

"You  need  not  do  that,  for  the  person  to  give  it 
to  me  is  already  in  the  room." 

The  doctor  bowed  to  Margaret  as  he  spoke. 

"I  love  the  'Moonlight  Sonata'  beyond  all  other 
music,"  he  said.  "Will  you  continue  playing  it, 
Mrs.  Awdrey?  Will  you  rest  a  tired  physician  as 
well  as  your  husband  with  your  music?" 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,"  she  re 
plied.  She  returned  at  once  to  her  shady  corner, 
and  the  soothing  effects  of  the  sonata  once  more 
filled  the  room.  For  a  short  time  Awdrey  sat  up 
right,  forced  into  attention  of  others  by  the  fact  of 
Dr.  Bumsey' s  presence,  but  he  soon  relaxed  the 
slight  effort  after  self-control,  and  lay  back  in  his 
chair  once  again  with  his  eyes  half  shut. 

Bumsey  listened  to  the  music  and  watched  his 
strange  patient  at  the  same  time. 

Margaret  suddenly  stopped,  almost  as  abruptly 
as  if  she  had  had  a  signal.  She  walked  up  the 
room,  and  stood  in  the  bright  circle  of  light.  She 
looked  very  lovely,  and  almost  spiritual — her  face 
was  pale — her  eyes  luminous  as  if  lit  from  within 
— her  pathetic  and  perfect  lips  were  slightly  apart. 
Bumsey  thought  her  something  like  an  angel  who 
was  about  to  utter  a  benediction. 

"I  am  going  up  now  to  see  little  Arthur,"  she 
said.  She  glanced  at  her  husband,  and  left  the 
room. 


138  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Bumsey  had  not  failed  to  observe  that  Awdrey 
did  not  even  glance  at  his  wife  when  she  stood  on 
the  hearth.  There  was  a  full  moment's  pause  after 
she  left  the  room.  Awdrey ' s  eyes  were  half  closed, 
they  were  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  bright 
blaze.  Bumsey  looked  full  at  him. 

"Strange  case,  strange  man,"  he  muttered  under 
his  breath.  "  There  is  something  for  me  to  un 
ravel  here.  The  man  who  is  insensate  enough  not 
to  see  the  beauty  in  that  woman's  face,  not  to  revel 
in  the  love  she  bestows  on  him — he  is  a  log,  not  a 
man — and  yet " 

"Are  you  well?"  cried  the  doctor  abruptly.  He 
spoke  on  purpose  with  great  distinctness,  and  his 
words  had  something  the  effect  of  a  pistol-shot. 

Awdrey  sat  bolt  upright  and  stared  full  at  him. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  question?"  he  replied, 
irritation  in  his  tone. 

a  Because  I  wish  to  question  you  with  regard  to 
your  health,"  said  Dr.  Bumsey.  "Whether  you 
feel  it  or  not,  you  are  by  no  means  well." 

" Indeed  1    What  do  I  look  like?" 

"Like  a  man  who  sees  more  than  he  ought,"  re 
plied  the  doctor  with  deliberation.  "But  before 
we  come  to  that  may  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

Awdrey  looked  disturbed — he  got  up  and  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"Ask  what  you  please,"  he  said,  rubbing  up  his 
hair  as  he  spoke.  "  As  there  is  a  heaven  above, 
Dr.  Bumsey,  you  see  a  wretched  man  before  you 
to-night." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  127 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  strong  words!  Surely, 
you  of  all  people " 

Awdrey  interrupted  with  a  hollow  laugh. 

"Ah," he  said,  "it  looks  like  it,  does  it  not?  In 
any  circle,  among  any  concourse  of  people,  I 
should  be  pointed  out  as  the  fortunate  man.  I 
have  money — I  have  a  very  good  and  beautiful  wife 
— I  am  the  father  of  as  fine  a  boy  as  the  heart  of 
man  could  desire.  I  belong  to  one  of  the  old  and 
established  families  of  our  country,  and  I  also,  I 
suppose,  may  claim  the  inestimable  privilege  to 
youth,  for  I  am  only  twenty-six  years  of  age — 

nevertheless "  He  shuddered,  looked  down 

the  long  room,  and  then  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  am  glad  I  came  here,"  said  Dr.  Bumsey. 
"  Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  the  symptoms  you  have 
just  described  are  by  no  means  uncommon  in  the 
cases  of  singularly  fortunate  individuals  like  your 
self.  The  fact  is,  you  have  got  too  much.  You 
want  to  empty  yourself  of  some  of  your  abundance 
in  order  that  contentment  and  health  of  mind  may 
flow  in." 

Awdrey  stared  at  the  doctor  with  lack-lustre 
eyes.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  past  all  that,"  he  said.  "I  might  at  the 
first  have  managed  to  make  a  superhuman  effort ; 
but  now  I  have  no  energy  for  anything.  I  have 
not  even  energy  sufficient  to  take  away  my  own 
life,  which  is  the  only  thing  on  all  God's  earth  that 
I  crave  to  do." 

"Come,  come,    Awdrey,   you  must  not   allow 


138  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

yourself  to  speak  like  that.  Now  sit  down.  Tell 
me,  if  you  possibly  can,  exactly  what  you  feel." 

u  Why  should  I  tell  you?    I  am  not  your  patient. " 

"But  I  want  you  to  be." 

"Is  that  why  you  came  here  this  evening?" 

Dr.  Rumsey  paused  before  he  replied;  he  had 
not  expected  this  question. 

"I  will  answer  you  frankly,"  he  said,  with  a 
pause.  "Tour  wife  came  to  see  me  about  you. 
She  did  not  wish  me  to  mention  the  fact  of  her 
visit,  but  I  believe  I  am  wise  in  keeping  nothing 
back  from  you.  Tou  love  your  wife,  don't  you?" 

"  I  suppose  I  do ;  that  is,  if  I  love  anybody. " 

"  Of  course,  you  love  her.  Don't  sentimentalize 
over  a  fact.  She  came  to  see  me  because  her  love 
for  you  is  over-abundant.  It  makes  her  anxious ; 
you  have  given  her,  Awdrey,  a  great  deal  of  anxiety 
lately. 

"I  cannot  imagine  how.    I  have  done  nothing." 

"  That  is  just  it.  You  have  done  too  little.  She 
is  naturally  terribly  anxious.  She  told  me  one  or 
two  things  about  your  state  which  I  do  not  consider 
quite  satisfactory.  I  said  it  would  be  necessary  for 
me  to  have  an  interview  with  you,  and  asked  her 
to  beg  of  you  to  call  at  my  house.  She  said  you 
did  not  consider  yourself  ill,  and  might  not  be 
willing  to  come  to  me.  I  then  resolved  to  come  to 
you,  and  here  I  am." 

"  It  is  good  of  you,  Rumsey,  but  you  can  do 
nothing;  I  am  not  really  ill.  It  is  simply  that 
•omething — I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  what — has 


DE.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

killed  my  soul.  I  believe,  before  heaven,  that  I 
have  stated  the  case  in  a  nutshell.  You  may  be, 
and  doubtless  are,  a  great  doctor,  but  you  have 
not  come  across  living  men  with  dead  souls  before." 

"I  have  not  Awdrey;  nor  is  your  soul  dead. 
You  state  an  impossibility." 

Awdrey  started  excitedly.  His  face,  which  had 
been  deadly  pale,  now  blazed  with  animation  and 
color. 

"Learned  as  you  are,"  he  cried,  "you  will  gain 
some  fresh  and  valuable  experience  from  me  to- 
nighfe.  I  am  the  strangest  patient  you  ever  at 
tempted  to  cure.  You  have  roused  me,  and  it  is 
good  to  be  roused.  Perhaps  my  soul  is  not  dead 
after  all — perhaps  it  is  struggling  with  a  demoa 
which  crushes  it  down." 
§ 


CHAPTER  XIL 

DR.  EUMSET  did  not  reply  to  this  for  a  moment» 
then  he  spoke  quietly. 

"Tell  me  everything,"  he  said.  "Nothing  you 
can  say  will  startle  me,  but  if  there  is  any  possi 
bility  of  my  helping  you  I  must  know  the  case  as 
far  as  you  can  give  it  me." 

al  have  but  little  to  say,"  replied  Awdrey.  "I 
am  paralyzed  day  after  day  simply  by  want  of 
leeiing.  Even  a  sense  of  pain,  of  irritation,  is  a 
relief — the  deadness  of  my  life  is  so  overpowering. 
Do  you  know  the  history  of  my  house?" 

"Your  wife  has  told  me.     It  is  a  queer  story." 

"It  is  a  damnable  story,"  said  Awdrey.  "  With 
such  a  fate  hanging  over  me,  why  was  I  born? 
Why  did  my  father  marry?  Why  did  my  mother 
bring  a  man-child  into  the  world?  Men  with 
dooms  like  mine  ought  never  to  have  descendants. 
I  curse  the  thought  that  I  have  a  child  myself.  It 
is  all  cruel,  monstrous." 

"But  the  thing  you  fear  has  not  fallen  upon 
you,"  said  Dr.  Rumsey. 

"  Has  it  not?    I  believe  it  has." 

"  How  can  you  possibly  imagine  what  is  not  the 
case?" 

"Dr.  Ramsey,"  said  Awdrey,  advancing  a  step 
180 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  131 

or  two  to  meet  him,  "I  don't  imagine  what  I 
know.  Look  at  me.  I  am  six-and-twenty.  Do 
I  look  that  age?" 

"  I  must  confess  that  yon  look  older  than  your 
years." 

"Aye,  I  should  think  so.  See  my  hair  already 
mingled  with  gray.  Feel  this  nerveless  hand.  Is 
this  the  hand  of  the  English  youth  of  six-and- 
twenty?  Look  at  my  eyes — how  dull  they  are;  are 
they  the  eyes  of  a  man  in  his  prime?  No,  no,  I 
am  going  down  to  the  grave  as  the  other  men  of 
my  house  have  gone,  simply  because  I  cannot  help 
it.  Like  those  who  have  gone  before  me  I  slip, 
and  slip,  and  slip,  and  cannot  get  a  grip  of  life  any 
where,  and  so  I  go  out,  or  go  over  the  precipice 
into  God  knows  what — anyhow  I  go." 

"  Poor  fellow,  he  is  far  worse  than  I  had  any 
idea  of, "  thought  the  doctor.  He  took  his  patient's 
hand,  and  led  him  to  a  seat. 

u  You  are  quite  ill  enough  to  see  a  doctor, "  he 
said,  "  and  ought  to  have  had  advice  long  ago.  I 
mean  to  take  you  up,  Awdrey.  From  this  moment 
you  must  consider  yourself  my  patient." 

"If  you  can  do  anything  for  me  I  shall  be 
glad — that  is,  no,  I  shall  not  be  glad,  for  I  am 
incapable  of  the  sensation,  but  I  am  aware  it  is 
the  right  thing  to  put  myself  into  your  hands. 
What  do  you  advise?" 

"  1  cannot  tell  you  until  I  know  more.  My  pres 
ent  impression  is  that  you  are  simply  the  victim  of 
nerve  terrors.  You  have  dwelt  upon  the  doom  of 


132  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

your  house  for  so  long  a  time  that  you  are  now  fully 
convinced  that  you  are  one  of  the  victims.  But 
you  must  please  remember  that  the  special  feature 
of  the  tragedy,  for  tragedy  it  is,  has  not  occurred  in 
your  case,  for  you  have  never  forgotten  anything 
of  consequence." 

"  Only  one  thing — it  sounds  stupid  even  to  speak 
of  it,  but  it  worries  me  inconceivably.  There  was 
a  murder  committed  on  Salisbury  Plain  the  night 
before  I  got  engaged  to  Margaret.  On  that  night 
I  lost  a  walking-stick  which  I  was  particularly 
fond  of." 

"Your  wife  mentioned  to  me  that  you  were 
troubled  on  that  point,"  broke  in  Dr.  Kumsey. 
"  Pray  dismiss  it  at  once  and  forever  from  your 
mind.  The  fact  of  your  having  forgotten  such  a 
trifle  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence." 

"Do  you  think  so?  The  fret  about  it  has  fast 
ened  itself  very  deeply  into  my  mind." 

"  Well,  don't  think  of  it  again — the  next  time  it 
occurs  to  torment  you,  just  remember  that  I,  who 
have  made  brain  .troubles  like  yours  my  special 
study,  think  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"  Thank  you,  I'll  try  to  remember." 

"  Do  so.  Now,  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  an 
other  matter.  You  sleep  badly." 

"Do  I?"  Awdrey  raised  his  brows.  *  I  cannot 
recall  that  fact." 

"Nevertheless  you  do.  Your  wife  speaks  of  it. 
Now  in  your  state  of  health  it  is  most  essential 
that  you  should  have  good  nights." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  133 

"I  always  feel  an  added  sense  of  depression 
when  I  am  going  to  bed, "  said  Awdrey,  "  but  I  am 
unconscious  that  I  have  bad  nights — what  can 
Margaret  mean?" 

"I  trust  that  your  wife's  natural  nervousness 
with  regard  to  you  makes  her  inclined  to  exag 
gerate  your  symptoms,  but  I  may  as  well  say 
frankly  that  some  of  the  things  she  has  mentioned, 
as  occurring  night  after  night,  have  given  me  un 
easiness.  Now  I  should  like  to  be  with  you  during 
one  of  your  bad  nights." 

"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Come  home  with  me  to-night,  my  good  fellow," 
said  the  doctor,  laying  his  hand  on  Awdrey 's 
shoulder — "we  will  pass  this  night  together. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"  Your  request  surprises  me  very  much,  but  it 
would  be  a  relief — I  will  go,"  said  Awdrey. 

He  turned  and  rang  the  bell  as  he  spoke — a  ser 
vant  appeared,  who  was  sent  with  a  message  to 
Mrs.  Awdrey.  She  came  to  the  drawing-room  in 
a  few  minutes.  Her  face  of  animation,  wakeful- 
ness  of  soul  and  feeling,  made  a  strong  contrast  to 
Awdrey's  haggard,  lifeless  expression. 

He  went  up  to  his  wife  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"You  have  been  telling  tales  of  me,  Maggie,*'  he 
said.  "  You  complain  of  something  I  know  noth 
ing  about— my  bad  nights." 

"They  are  very  bad,  Bobert,  very  terrible,"  she 
replied. 


134  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"I  cannot  recall  a  single  thing  about  them." 

"I  wish  you  could  remember,"  she  said. 

"I  have  made  a  suggestion  to  your  husband," 
interrupted  Dr.  Bumsey,  "  which  I  am  happy  to 
say  he  approves  of.  He  returns  with  me  to  my 
house  to-night.  I  will  promise  to  look  after  him. 
If  he  does  happen  to  have  a  bad  night  I  shall  be 
witness  to  it.  Now  pray  go  to  bed  yourself  and 
enjoy  the  rest  you  sorely  need." 

Margaret  tried  to  smile  in  reply,  but  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Bumsey  saw  them,  but  Awdrey 
took  no  notice — he  was  staring  straight  into  va 
cancy,  after  his  habitual  fashion. 

A  moment  later  he  and  Kumsey  left  the  house 
together.  Ten  minutes  afterward  Kumsey  opened 
his  own  door  with  a  latch-key. 

"  It  is  late,"  he  said  to  his  guest.  He  glanced  at 
the  clock  as  he  spoke.  "At  this  hour  I  always 
indulge  in  supper — it  is  waiting  for  me  now.  Will 
yon  come  and  have  a  glass  of  port  with  me?" 

Awdrey  murmured  something  in  reply — the  two 
men  went  into  the  dining-room,  where  Bumsey, 
without  apparently  making  any  fuss,  saw  that  his 
guest  ate  and  drank  heartily.  During  the  meal 
thi  doctor  talked,  and  Awdrey  replied  in  mono 
syllables — sometimes,  indeed,  not  replying  at  all 
Dr.  Bumsey  took  no  notice  of  this.  When  the 
meal,  which  really  only  took  a  few  minutes,  was 
orer,  he  rose. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  to  your  bedroom  now," 
iesaid. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  135 

"Thanks,"  answered  Awdrey.  "The  whole 
thing  seems  extraordinary,"  he  added.  "I  cannot 
make  out  why  I  am  to  sleep  in  your  house. " 

"  You  sleep  here  as  my  patient.  I  am  going  to 
sit  up  with  you." 

"  You !    I  cannot  allow  it,  doctor  F 

"Not  a  word,  my  dear  sir.  Pray  don't  over 
whelm  me  with  thanks.  Your  case  is  one  of  great 
interest  to  me.  I  shall  certainly  not  regret  the 
few  hours  I  steal  from  sleep  to  watch  it." 

Awdrey  made  a  dull  reply.  The  two  men  went 
up-stairs.  Kumsey  had  already  given  orders,  and 
a  bedroom  had  been  prepared.  A  bright  fire 
burned  in  the  grate,  and  electric  light  made  the 
room  cheerful  as  day.  The  bed  was  placed  in  an 
alcove  by  itself.  In  front  of  the  fire  was  drawn  up 
a  deep,  easy  chair,  a  small  table,  a  reading-lamp 
ready  to  be  lighted,  and  several  books. 

"For  me?"  said  Awdrey,  glancing  at  these. 
"  Excuse  me,  Dr.  Kumsey,  but  I  do  not  appreciate 
books.  Of  late  months  I  have  had  a  difficulty  in 
centring  my  thoughts  on  what  I  read.  Even  the 
most  exciting  story  fails  to  arouse  my  attention." 

"These  books  are  for  me,"  said  the  doctor. 
"You  are  to  go  straight  to  bed.  You  will  find 
everything  you  require  for  the  night  in  that  part 
of  the  room.  Pray  undress  as  quickly  as  possible 
— I  shall  return  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Will  you  give  me  a  sleeping  draught?  I 
generally  take  chloral." 

aMy  dear  sir,  I  will  give  you  nothing.    It  is  my 


13«  DR.  RITMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

impression  you  will  have  a  good  night  without 
having  recourse  to  sedatives.  Get  into  bed  now — • 
you  look  sleepy  already." 

The  doctpr  left  the  room.  When  he  came  back 
at  the  end  of  the  allotted  time,  Awdrey  was  in  bed 
— he  was  lying  on  his  back,  with  his  eyes  already 
closed.  His  face  looked  very  cadaverous  and 
ghastly  pale;  but  for  the  gentle  breathing  which 
came  from  his  partly  opened  lips  he  might  almost 
have  been  a  dead  man. 

"Six-and-twenty,"  muttered  the  doctor,  as  he 
glanced  at  him,  "  six-and-f orty,  six-and-fifty, 
rather.  This  is  a  very  queer  case.  There  is 
something  at  the  root  of  it.  I  can  no  longer  make 
light  of  Mrs.  Awdrey's  fears — something  is  killing 
that  man  inch  by  inch.  He  has  described  his  own 
condition  very  accurately.  He  is  slipping  out  of 
life  because  he  has  not  got  grip  enough  to  hold  it. 
Nevertheless,  at  the  present  moment,  no  child 
could  sleep  more  tranquilly." 

The  doctor  turned  off  the  electric  light,  and  re 
turned  to  his  own  bright  part  of  the  room.  The 
bed  in  which  Awdrey  lay  was  now  in  complete 
shadow.  Dr.  Eumsey  opened  a  medical  treatise, 
but  he  did  not  read.  On  the  .contrary,  the  book 
lay  unnoticed  on  his  knee,  while  he  himself  stared 
into  the  blaze  of  the  fire — his  brows  were  contracted 
in  anxious  thought.  He  was  thinking  of  the  sleeper 
and  his  story — of  the  tragedy  which  all  this  meant 
to  Margaret.  Then,  by  a  queer  chain  of  connec 
tion,  his  memory  reverted  to  Mrs.  Everett — her 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  137 

passionate  life  quest — her  determination  to  consider 
her  son  innocent.  The  queer  scene  she  had  de 
scribed  as  taking  place  between  Hetty  and  herself 
returned  vividly  once  more  to  the  doctor's  reten 
tive  memory. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  Awdrey  can  in  any  way  be 
connected  with  that  tragedy?"  he  thought.  "It 
looks  almost  like  it.  According  to  his  own  show 
ing,  and  according  to  his  wife's  showing,  the 
strange  symptoms  which  have  brought  him  to  his 
present  pass  began  about  the  date  of  that  some 
what  mysterious  murder.  I  have  thought  it  best 
to  make  light  of  that  lapse  of  memory  which  worries 
the  poor  fellow  so  much  in  connection  with  his 
walking-stick,  but  is  there  not  something  in  it  after 
all?  Can  he  possibly  have  witnessed  the  murder? 
Would  it  be  possible  for  him  to  throw  any  light 
upon  it  and  save  Everett?  If  I  really  thought  so? 
But  no,  the  hypothesis  is  too  wild." 

Dr.  Rumsey  turned  again  to  his  book.  He  was 
preparing  a  lecture  of  some  importance.  As  he 
read  he  made  many  notes.  The  sleeper  in  the  dis 
tant  part  of  the  room  slept  on  calmly — the  night 
gradually  wore  itself  away — the  fire  smouldered  in 
the  grate. 

"  If  this  night  passes  without  any  peculiar  mani 
festation  on  Awdrey 's  part,  I  shall  begin  to  feel 
assured  that  the  wife  has  overstated  the  case," 
thought  the  doctor.  He  bent  forward  as  this 
thought  came  to  him  to  replenish  the  fire.  In  the 
act  of  doing  so  he  made  a  slight  noise.  Whether 


138  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

this  noise  disturbed  the  sleeper  or  not  no  one  can 
say — Awdrey  abruptly  turned  in  bed,  opened  his 
eyes,  uttered  a  heavy  groan,  and  then  sat  up. 

"There  it  is  again,"  he  cried.  "Margaret,  are 
you  there? — Margaret,  come  here." 

Dr.  Eumsey  immediately  approached  the  bed. 

"Tour  wife  is  not  in  the  room,  Awdrey,"  he 
said — "you  remember,  don't  you,  that  you  are 
passing  the  night  with  me." 

Awdrey  rubbed  his  eyes — he  took  no  notice  of 
Dr.  Kumsey's  words.  He  stared  straight  before 
him  in  the  direction  of  one  of  the  windows. 

"There  it  is,"  he  said,  "the  usual  thing — the 
globe  of  light  and  the  picture  in  the  middle.  There 
lies  the  murdered  man  on  his  back.  Yes,  that  is 
the  bit  of  the  Plain  that  I  know  so  well — the  moon 
drifts  behind  the  clouds — now  it  shines  out,  and  I 
see  the  face  of  the  murdered  man — but  the  mur 
derer,  who  is  he?  Why  will  he  keep  his  back  to 
me ? !  Good  God !  why  can't  I  see  his  face ?  Look, 
can't  you  see  for  yourself?  Margaret,  can't  you 
see? — do  you  notice  the  stick  in  his  hand? — it  is 
my  stick — and — the  scoundrel,  he  wears  my 
clothes.  Yes,  those  clothes  are  mine.  My  God, 
what  does  this  mean?" 


CHAPTER 

u  COME,  Awdrey,  wake  up,  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about,"  said  the  doctor.  He 
grasped  his  patient  firmly  by  one  arm,  and  shook 
him  slightly.  The  dazed  and  stricken  man  gazed 
at  the  doctor  in  astonishment. 

"Where  am  I,  and  what  is  the  matter?"  he 
asked. 

u  You  are  spending  the  night  in  my  house,  and 
have  just  had  a  bad  dream,"  said  Dr.  Rumsey. 
"  Don't  go  back  to  bed  just  yet.  Come  and  sit  by 
the  fire  for  a  few  minutes." 

As  the  doctor  spoke,  he  put  a  warm  padded 
dressing-gown  of  his  own  over  his  shivering  and 
cowed-looking  patient. 

Awdrey  wrapped  himself  in  it,  and  approached 
the  fire.  Dr.  Rumsey  drew  a  chair  forward.  He 
noticed  the  shaking  hands,  thin  almost  to  emacia 
tion,  the  sunken  cheeks,  the  glazed  expression  of 
the  eyes,  the  look  of  age  and  mental  irritation 
which  characterized  the  face. 

"Poor  fellow?  no  wonder  that  he  should  be 
simply  slipping  out  of  life  if  this  kind  of  thing 
continues  night  after  night,"  thought  the  doctor. 
"What  is  to  be  done  with  him?  His  is  one  of  the 


HO  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

cases  which  baffle  Science.  Well,  at  least,  he 
wants  heaps  of  nourishment  to  enable  him  to  bear 
up.  I'll  go  downstairs  and  prepare  a  meal  for  him. " 

He  spoke  aloud. 

"You  shiver,  Awdrey,  are  you  cold?" 

"Not  very,"  replied  Awdrey,  trying  to  smile, 
although  his  lips  chattered.  He  looked  into 
the  fire,  and  held  out  one  hand  to  the  grateful 
blaze. 

"You'll  feel  much  better  after  you  have  taken  a 
prescription  which  I  mean  to  make  up  for  you. 
I'll  go  and  prepare  it  now.  Do  you  mind  being 
left  alone?" 

"  Certainly  not.     Why  should  I?" 

"He  has  already  forgotten  his  terrors,"  thought 
Dr.  Rumsey.  "  Queer  case,  incomprehensible.  I 
never  met  one  like  it  before.  In  these  days,  it  is 
true,  one  comes  across  all  forms  of  psychological 
distress.  Nothing  now  ought  to  be  new  or  start 
ling  to  medical  science,  but  this  certainly  is  mar 
vellous." 

The  doctor  speedily  returned  with  a  plate  of  cold 
meat,  some  bread  and  butter,  and  a  bottle  of  cham 
pagne. 

"  As  we  are  both  spending  the  night  other  than 
it  should  be  spent,"  he  said,  "we  must  have  nour 
ishment.  I  am  going  to  eat,  will  you  join  me?" 

"I  feel  hungry,"  answered  Awdrey.  "I  should 
be  glad  of  something." 

The  doctor  fed  him  as  though  he  were  an  infant. 
He  drank  off  two  glasses  of  champagne,  and  then 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENf.  141 

the  color  returned  to  his  cheeks,  and  some  ani 
mation  to  his  sunken  eyes. 

"You  look  better, "said  the  doctor.  "Now,  you 
will  get  back  to  bed,  won't  you?  After  that  cham 
pagne  a  good  sleep  will  put  some  mettle  into  you. 
It  is  not  yet  four  o'clock.  You  have  several  hours 
to  devote  to  slumber." 

The  moment  Bumsey  began  to  speak,  Awdrey's 
eyes  dilated. 

"I  remember  something,"  he  said. 

"  I  dare  say  you  do — many  things — what  are  you 
specially  alluding  to?" 

"  I  saw  something  a  short  time  ago  in  this  room. 
The  memory  of  it  comes  dimly  back  to  me.  I 
struggle  to  grasp  it  fully.  Is  your  house  said  to 
be  haunted,  Dr.  Bumsey?  " 

Dr.  Bumsey  laughed. 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  haunted  or  not,  I  saw  something." 
Awdrey  rose  slowly  as  he  spoke — he  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  the  farthest  window. 

"  I  was  sleeping  soundly  but  suddenly  found  my 
self  broad  awake,"  he  began — "I  saw  over  there" 
— he  pointed  with  his  hand  to  the  farthest  window, 
"  what  looked  like  a  perfect  sphere  or  globe  of  light 
— in  the  centre  of  this  light  was  a  picture.  I  see 
the  whole  thing  now  in  imagination,  but  the  pic 
ture  is  dim — it  worries  me,  I  want  to  see  it  better. 
No,  I  will  not  get  back  to  bed." 

"  You  had  a  bad  dream  and  are  beginning  to  re 
member  it,"  said  Bumsey. 


143  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  It  was  not  a  dream  at  all.  I  was  wide  awake. 
Stay — don't  question  me — my  memory  becomes 
more  vivid  instant  by  instant.  I  was  wide  awake 
as  I  said — I  got  up — I  approached  the  thing.  It 
never  swerved  from  the  one  position — it  was  there 
by  the  window — a  sphere  of  light  and  the  picture 
in  the  middle.  There  were  two  men  in  the  picture. " 

"A  nightmare,  a  nightmare,"  said  the  doctor. 
*  What  did  you  eat  for  dinner  last  night?" 

"  It  was  not  an  ordinary  nightmare — my  memory 
is  now  quite  vivid.  I  recall  the  whole  vision.  I 
saw  a  picture  of  something  that  happened.  Tears 
ago,  Dr.  Rumsey — over  five  years  ago  now — there 
was  a  murder  committed  on  the  Plain  near  my 
place.  Two  men,  undergraduates  of  Oxford,  were 
staying  at  our  village  inn — they  fought  about  a  girl 
with  whom  they  were  both  in  love.  One  man  killed 
the  other.  The  murder  was  committed  in  a  mo 
ment  of  strong  provocation  and  the  murderer  only 
got  penal  servitude.  He  is  serving  his  time  now. 
It  seems  strange,  does  it  not,  that  I  should  have 
seen  a  complete  picture  of  the  murder !  The  whole 
thing  was  very  vivid  and  distinct — it  has,  in  short, 
burnt  itself  into  my  brain." 

Awdrey  raised  his  hand  as  he_  spoke  and  pressed 
it  to  his  forehead.  "  My  pulse  is  bounding  just 
here,"  he  said — he  touched  his  temple.  "I  have 
only  to  shut  my  eyes  to  see  in  imagination  what  I 
saw  in  reality  half  an  hour  ago.  Why  should  I  be 
worried  with  a  picture  of  a  murder  committed  five 
years  ago?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  143 

*  It  probably  made  a  deep  impression  on  you  at 
the  time,"  said  Dr.  Rumsey.  "You  are  now  weak 
and  your  nerves  much  out  of  order — your  brain 
has  simply  reverted  back  to  it.  If  I  were  you  I 
would  only  think  of  it  as  an  ordinary  nightmare. 
Pray  let  me  persuade  you  to  go  back  to  bed." 

"  I  could  not — I  am  stricken  by  the  most  inde 
scribable  terror." 

"  Nonsense !    You  a  man  !'* 

"  You  may  heap  what  opprobrium  you  like  on 
me,  but  I  cannot  deny  the  fact.  I  am  full  of 
cowardly  terror.  I  cannot  account  for  my  sensa 
tions.  The  essence  of  my  torture  lies  in  the  fact 
that  I  am  unable  to  see  the  face  of  the  man  who 
committed  the  murder." 

aOh,  come,  why  should  you  see  his  face — you 
know  who  he  was?" 

"  That's  just  it,  doctor.  I  wish  to  God  I  did 
know."  Awdrey  approached  close  to  Dr.  Rumsey, 
and  stared  into  his  eyes.  His  own  eyes  were  queer 
and  glittering.  He  seemed  instinctively  to  feel  that 
he  had  said  too  much,  for  he  drew  back  a  step, 
putting  his  hand  again  to  his  forehead  and  staring 
fixedly  out  into  vacancy. 

"You  believe  that  I  am  talking  nonsense,"  he 
said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  believe  that  you  are  a  sad  victim  to  your  own 
nervous  fears.  You  need  not  go  to  bed  unless  you 
like.  Dress  yourself  and  sit  here  by  the  fire.  You 
will  very  likely  fall  asleep  in  this  arm-chair.  I 
shall  remain  close  to  you." 


144  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  You  are  really  good  to  me,  and  I  would  thank 
you  if  I  were  capable  of  gratitude.  Yes,  I'll  get 
into  my  clothes." 

Rumsey  turned  on  the  electric  light,  and  Awdrey 
with  trembling  fingers  dressed  himself.  When 
he  came  back  to  his  easy-chair  by  the  warm  fire 
he  said  suddenly : 

"  Give  me  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  will  you?" 

The  doctor  handed  him  a  blank  sheet  from  his 
own  note-paper,  and  furnished  him  with  a  pencil. 

"Now  I  will  sketch  what  I  saw  for  you,"  he  said. 

He  drew  with  bold  touches  a  broad  sphere  of 
light.  In  the  centre  was  a  picture,  minute  but 
faithful. 

At  one  time  Awdrey  had  been  fond  of  dabbling 
in  art.  He  sketched  a  night  scene  now,  with  broad 
effects — a  single  bar  of  moonlight  lit  up  everything 
with  vivid  distinctness.  A  man  lay  on  the  ground 
stretched  out  flat  and  motionless — another  man 
bent  over  him  in  a  queer  attitude — he  held  a  stick 
in  his  hand — he  was  tall  and  slender — there  was  a 
certain  look  about  his  figure!  Awdrey  dropped 
his  pencil  and  stared  furtively  with  eyes  dilated 
with  horror  at  his  own  production.  Then  he  put 
his  sketch  face  downward  on  the  table,  and  turned 
a  white  and  indescribably  perplexed  countenance 
to  Dr.  Kumsey. 

"What  I  have  drawn  is  not  worth  looking  at," 
he  said,  simulating  a  yawn  as  he  spoke.  "  After 
all  I  cannot  quite  reproduce  what  I  saw.  I  believe 
J  shall  cloze  off  in  this  chair," 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  145 

"Do  so,"  said  the  doctor. 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  the  patient  was  souna 
asleep,  Dr.  Rumsey  lifted  the  paper  on  which 
Awdrey  had  made  his  sketch.  He  looked  fixedly 
at  the  vividly  worked-up  picture. 

"  The  man  whose  back  is  alone  visible  has  an 
unmistakable  likeness  to  Awdrey,"  he  muttered. 
"Poor  fellow,  what  does  this  mean! — diseased 
nerves  of  course.  The  next  thing  he  will  say  is 
that  he  committed  the  murder  himself.  He  cer 
tainly  needs  immediate  treatment.  But  what  to  do 
is  the  puzzle." 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

WHEN  lie  awoke  Awdrey  felt  much  better.  He 
expressed  surprise  at  rinding  himself  sitting  up  in 
stead  of  in  bed,  and  Rumsey  saw  that  he  had  once 
more  completely  forgotten  the  occurrence  of  the 
night.  The  doctor  resolved  that  he  should  not  see 
the  sketch  he  had  made — he  put  it  carefully  away 
therefore  in  one  of  his  own  private  drawers,  for 
he  knew  that  it  might  possibly  be  useful  later  on. 
At  the  present  moment  the  patient  was  better  with 
out  it. 

The  two  men  breakfasted  together,  and  then 
Bumsey  spoke. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  won't  conceal  the  truth  from 
you.  I  watched  you  last  night  with  great  anxiety — 
I  am  glad  I  sat  up  with  you,  for  I  am  now  able 
to  make  a  fairly  correct  diagnosis  of  your  case. 
You  are  certainly  very  far  from  well — you  are  in  a 
sort  of  condition  when  a  very  little  more  might 
overbalance  your  mind.  I  tell  you  this  because 
I  think  it  best  for  you  to  know  the  exact  truth — at 
the  same  time  pray  do  not  be  seriously  alarmed, 
there  is  nothing  as  yet  in  your  case  to  prevent  you 
from  completely  recovering  your  mental  equi 
librium,  but,  in  my  opinion,  to  do  so  you  must 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  147 

have  complete  change  of  air  and  absolutely  fresh 
surroundings.  I  recommend  therefore  that  yoi? 
go  away  from  home  immediately.  Do  not  take 
your  child  nor  yet  your  wife  with  you.  If  you 
commission  me  to  do  so,  I  can  get  you  a  com 
panion  in  the  shape  of  a  clever  young  doctor  who 
will  never  intrude  his  medical  knowledge  on  you, 
but  yet  will  be  at  hand  to  advise  you  in  case  the 
state  of  your  nerves  requires  such  interference.  I 
shall  put  him  in  possession  of  one  or  two  facts  with 
regard  to  your  nervous  condition,  but  will  not  tell 
him  too  much.  Make  up  your  mind  to  go  away  at 
once,  Awdrey,  within  the  week  if  possible.  Start 
with  a  sea  voyage — I  should  recommend  to  the 
Cape.  The  soothing  influence  of  the  sea  on  nerves 
like  yours  could  not  but  be  highly  beneficial. 
Take  a  sea  voyage — to  the  Cape  by  preference,  but 
anywhere.  It  does  not  greatly  matter  where  you 
go.  The  winter  is  on  us,  don't  spend  it  in  Eng 
land.  Keep  moving  about  from  one  place  to  "an 
other.  Don't  over-fatigue  yourself  in  any  way,  but 
at  the  same  time  allow  heaps  of  fresh  impressions 
to  filter  slowly  through  your  brain.  They  will  hava 
a  healthy  and  salutary  effect.  It  is  my  opinion 
that  by  slow  but  sure  degrees,  if  you  fully  take  my 
advice  in  this  matter,  you  will  forget  what  now  as 
sumes  the  aspect  of  monomania.  In  short,  you 
will  forget  yourself,  and  other  lives  and  other  in 
terests  mingling  with  yours  will  give  you  the 
necessary  health  and  cure.  I  must  ask  you  to  leave 
me  now,  for  it  is  the  hour  when  my  patients  arrive 


148  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

for  consultation,  but  I  will  call  round  at  your  house, 
late  this  evening.  Do  you  consent  to  my  scheme? 

"  I  must  take  a  day  to  think  it  over — this  kind 
of  thing  cannot  be  planned  in  a  hurry." 

"  In  your  case  it  can  and  ought  to  be.  You  have 
heaps  of  money,  which  is,  as  a  rule,  the  main  dif 
ficulty.  Go  home  to  your  wife,  tell  her  at  once 
what  I  recommend.  This  is  Wednesday,  you 
ought  to  be  out  of  London  on  Saturday.  Well, 
my  dear  fellow,  if  you  have  not  sufficient  energy  to 
carry  out  what  I  consider  essential  to  your  re 
covery,  some  one  else  must  have  energy  in  your 
behalf  and  simply  take  you  away.  Good-by — 
good-by." 

Awdrey  shook  hands  with  the  doctor  and  slowly 
left  the  house.  When  he  had  gone  a  dozen  yards 
down  the  street  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  pre 
scription  which  had  been  given  to  him.  He  had  a 
dull  sort  of  wish,  which  scarcely  amounted  to  a 
wish  in  his  mind,  to  reach  home  in  time  to  take 
little  Arthur  for  his  morning  walk.  Beyond  that 
faint  desire  he  had  no  longing  of  any  sort. 

He  had  nearly  reached  his  own  house  when  he 
was  conscious  of  footsteps  hurrying  after  him. 
Presently  they  reached  his  side,  and  he  heard  the 
hurried  panting  of  quickened  breath.  He  turned 
round  with  a  vague  sort  of  wonder  to  see  who  had 
dared  to  come  up  and  accost  him  in  this  way.  To 
his  surprise  he  saw  that  the  intruder  was  a  woman. 
She  was  dressed  in  the  plain  ungarnished  style  of 
the  country.  She  wore  an  old-fashioned  and  some- 


DR.   RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

what  seedy  jacket  which  reached  down  to  her  knees, 
her  dress  below  was  of  a  faded  summer  tint,  and 
thin  in  quality.  Her  hat  was  trimmed  with  rusty 
velvet,  she  wore  a  veil  which  only  reached  half 
way  down  her  face.  Her  whole  appearance  was 
odd,  and  out  of  keeping  with  her  surroundings. 

"Mr.  Awdrey,  you  don't  know  me?"  she  cried, 
in  a  panting  voice. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Awdrey.  He  stopped  in  his 
walk  and  stared  at  her. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  continued,  "that  you  are 
little  Hetty  Armitage?" 

"I  was,  sir,  I  ain't  now;  I'm  Hetty  Vincent  now. 
I  ventured  up  to  town  unbeknown  to  any  one  to  see 
you,  Mr.  Awdrey.  It  is  of  the  greatest  importance 
that  I  should  have  a  word  with  you,  sir.  Can  you 
give  me  a  few  minutes  all  alone?" 

"  Certainly  I  can,  Hetty, "  replied  Awdrey,  in  a 
kind  voice.  A  good  deal  of  his  old  gentleness  and 
graciousness  of  manner  returned  at  sight  of  Hetty. 
He  overlooked  her  ugly  attire — in  short,  he  did 
not  see  it.  She  recalled  old  times  to  him — gay 
old  times  before  he  had  known  sorrow  or  trouble. 
She  belonged  to  his  own  village,  to  his  own  peo 
ple.  He  was  conscious  of  a  grateful  sense  of  re 
freshment  at  meeting  her  again. 

"  You  shall  come  home  with  me,"  he  said.  "  My 
wife  will  be  glad  to  welcome  you.  How  are  all  the 
old  folks  at  Grandcourt?" 

"  I  believe  they  are  well,  sir,  but  I  have  not  been 
to  Grandcourt  lately.  My  husband's  farm  is  three 


150  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

miles  from  the  village.  Mr.  Robert,"  dropping 
her  voice,  "  I  cannot  go  home  with  you.  It  would 
be  dangerous  if  I  were  to  be  seen  at  your 
house. " 

"Dangerous!"  said  Awdrey  in  surprise.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

u  What  I  say,  sir ;  I  must  not  be  seen  talking 
to  you.  On  no  account  must  we  two  be  seen  to 
gether.  I  have  come  up  to  London  unbeknown 
to  anybody,  because  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  tell 
you  something,  and  to  ask  you — to  ask  you — Oh, 
my  God !"  continued  Hetty,  raising  her  eyes  sky 
ward  as  she  spoke,  "how  am  I  to  tell  him?" 

She  turned  white  to  her  lips  now ;  she  trembled 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Sir,"  she  continued,  "there's  some  one  who 
suspects." 

"Suspects?"  said  Awdrey,  knitting  his  brows, 
"Suspects  what?  What  have  suspicious  people  to 
do  with  me?  You  puzzle  me  very  much  by  this 
extraordinary  talk.  Are  you  quite  well  yourself? 
I  recall  now  that  you  always  were  a  mysterious 
little  thing;  but  you  are  greatly  changed,  Hetty." 
He  turned  and  gave  her  a  long  look. 

"  I  know  I  am,  sir,  but  that  cton't  matter  now.  I 
did  not  run  this  risk  to  talk  about  myself.  Mr. 
Robert,  there's  one  living  who  suspects." 

"Come  home  with  me  and  tell  me  there,"  said 
Awdrey — he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  irrita 
tion,  otherwise  Hetty's  queer  words  aroused  no 
emotion  of  any  sort  within  him. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  151 

'I  cannot  go  home  with  you,  sir — I  came  up  to 
London  at  risk  to  myself  in  order  to  warn  you." 

"Of  what— of  whom?" 

"Of  Mrs.  Everett,  sir." 

"Mrs.  Everett!  my  wife's  friend! — you  must 
have  taken  leave  of  your  sense.  See,  we  are  close 
to  the  Green  Park;  if  you  won't  come  to  my  house, 
let  us  go  there.  Then  you  can  tell  me  quickly 
what  you  want  to  say." 

Awdrey  motioned  to  Hetty  to  follow  him.  They 
crossed  the  road  near  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  soon 
afterward  were  in  the  shelter  of  the  Green  Park. 

"Now,  speak  out,"  said  the  Squire.  "I  cannot 
stay  long  with  you,  as  I  want  to  take  my  little  son 
for  his  customary  walk.  What  extraordinary  thing 
have  you  to  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Everett?" 

"  Mr.  Robert,  you  may  choose  to  make  light  of, 
but  in  your  heart  .  .  .  there,  I'll  tell  you  every 
thing.  Mrs.  Everett  was  down  at  Grandcourt  lately 
— she  was  stopping  at  uncle's  inn  in  the  village. 
She  walked  out  one  day  to  the  Plain — by  ill-luck 
she  met  me  on  her  road.  She  got  me  to  show  her 
the  place  where  the  murder  was  committed.  I 
stood  just  by  the  clump  of  elders  where — but  of 
course  you  have  forgotten,  sir.  Mrs.  Everett  stood 
with  me,  and  I  showed  her  the  very  spot.  I  de 
scribed  the  scene  to  her,  and  showed  her  just  where 
the  two  men  fought  together." 

The  memory  of  his  dream  came  back  to  Awdrey. 
He  was  very  quiet  now — his  brain  was  quite  alert. 

"Go  on,  Hetty,"  he  said.     "Do  you  know  this 


152  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

interests  me  vastly.  I  have  been  troubled  lately 
with  visions  of  that  queer  murder.  Only  last  night 
I  had  one.  Now  why  should  such  visions  come  to 
one  who  knows  nothing  whatever  about  it?" 

"  Well,  sir,  they  do  say " 

"What?" 

"It  is  the  old  proverb,"  muttered  Hetty. 
* 'Murder  wiU  out.'" 

"I  know  the  proverb,  but  I  don't  understand 
your  application,"  replied  Awdrey,  but  he  looked 
thoughtful.  "  If  you  were  troubled,  with  these  bad 
visions  or  dreams  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  he 
continued,  "for  you  really  witnessed  the  thing. 
By  the  way,  as  you  are  here,  perhaps  you  can  help 
me.  I  lost  my  stick  at  the  time  of  the  murder,  and 
never  found  it  since.  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to 
find  it.  What  is  that  you  say?" 

"  You'll  never  find  it,  sir.  Thank  the  good  God 
above,  you'll  never  find  it." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  recognize  the  loss  not  to  be 
a  trifle.  Most  people  laugh  when  I  speak  of  any 
thing  so  trivial  as  a  stick.  You  say  I  shall  never 
find  it  again — perhaps  so.  The  forgetting  it  so 
completely  troubles  me,  however.  Hetty,  I  had  a 
bad  dream  last  night — no,  it-  was  not  really  a 
dream,  it  was  a  vision.  I  saw  that  murder — I  wit 
nessed  the  whole  thing.  I  saw  the  dead  man,  and 
I  saw  the  back  of  the  man  who  committed  the 
murder.  I  tried  hard,  but  I  could  not  get  a  glimpse 
of  his  face.  I  wanted  to  see  his  face  badly.  What 
is  the  matter,  girl?  How  white  you  look." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  153 

"Don't  say  another  word,  sir.  I  have  borne 
much  for  you  and  for  your  people,  but  there  are 
limits,  and  if  you  say  another  word,  I  shall  lose 
my  self-control." 

"  I  am  sorry  my  talk  has  such  an  effect  upon 
you,  Hetty.  You  don't  look  too  happy,  my  little 
girl.  Tour  face  is  old — I  hope  your  husband  is 
good  to  you." 

"  He  is  as  good  as  I  deserve,  Mr.  Awdrey.  I 
never  had  any  love  to  give  him — he  knew  that  from 
the  first.  He  married  me  five  years  ago  because  I 
was  pretty,  and  Aunt  Fanny  thought  I'd  best  be 
married — she  thought  it  would  make  things  safer — 
but  it  is  a  mistake  to  marry  when  your  heart  is 
given  to  another." 

"  Ah  yes,  poor  Frere — you  were  in  love  with  him, 
were  you  not?" 

"  No,  sir,  that  I  was  not. " 

"I  forgot — it  was  with  Everett — poor  girl,  no 
wonder  you  look  old." 

Awdrey  gave  Hetty  a  weary  glance — his  atten 
tion  was  already  beginning  to  flag. 

"It  was  not  with  Mr.  Everett,"  whispered  Hetty 
in  a  low  tone  which  thrilled  with  passion. 

Awdrey  took  no  notice.  His  apathy  calmed  her, 
and  saved  her  from  making  a  terrible  avowal. 

"  I'll  just  tell  you  what  I  came  to  say  and  then 
leave  you,  sir, "  she  said  in  a  broken  voice.  "  It  is 
all  about  Mrs.  Everett.  She  stood  with  me  close 
to  the  alders,  and  I  described  the  scene  of  the 
murder  and  how  it  took  place,  and  all  of  a  sudden 


154  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

she  looked  me  in  the  eyes  and  said  something. 
She  said  that  Mr.  Horace  Frere  was  the  man  who 
was  murdered — but  the  man  who  committed  the 
murder  was  not  her  son,  Mr.  Everett.  She  spoke 
in  an  awful  sort  of  voice,  and  said  she  knew  the 
truth — she  knew  that  her  son  was  innocent.  Oh, 
sir,  I  got  so  awfully  frightened — I  nearly  let  the 
truth  out." 

*  You  nearly  let  the  truth  out — the  truth?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Mr.  Eobert,  is  it  possible  that  you  do  not 
know?" 

"I  only  know  what  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
knows — that  Everett  is  guilty." 

"I  see,  sir,  that  you  still  hold  to  that,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it,  but  Mrs.  Everett  is  the  sort  of  woman 
to  frighten  a  body.  Her  eyes  seem  to  pierce  right 
down  to  your  very  heart — they  seem  to  read  your 
secret.  Mr.  Awdrey,  will  you  do  what  I  ask  you? 
Will  you  leave  England  for  a  bit?  It  would  be 
dreadful  for  me  to  have  done  all  that  I  have  done 
and  to  find  it  useless  in  the  end." 

Whatever  reply  Awdrey  might  have  made  to  this 
appeal  was  never  uttered.  His  attention  was  at 
this  moment  effectually  turned- into  another  chan 
nel.  He  saw  Mrs.  Everett,  his  wife,  and  boy  com 
ing  to  meet  him.  The  boy,  a  splendid  little  fel 
low  with  rosy  cheeks  and  vigorous  limbs,  ran  down 
the  path  with  a  glad  cry  to  fling  himself  into  his 
father's  arms.  He  was  a  princely  looking  boy,  a 
worthy  scion  of  the  old  race.  Awdrey,  absorbed 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  155 

with  his  son,  took  no  notice  of  Hetty.  TJnper- 
ceived  by  him  she  slipped  down  a  side  path  and 
was  lost  to  view. 

"Dad,"  cried  the  child,  in  a  voice  of  rapture. 

Margaret  and  Mrs.  Everett  came  up  to  the  pair. 

"I  hope  you  are  better,  Robert,"  said  his  wife. 

"  I  suppose  I  am, "  he  answered.  "  I  had  a  fairly 
good  night.  How  well  Arthur  looks  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Poor  little  boy,  he  was  fretting  to  come  to  meet 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Awdrey. 

Awdrey  turned  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Everett.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
dark  eyes  looked  brighter  and  more  piercing  than 
ever. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "for  interrupting  this 
conversation.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  Mr. 
Awdrey,  I  saw  you  walking  just  now  with  a  woman. 
Who  was  she?" 

Awdrey  laughed. 

"Why,  she  has  gone,"  he  said,  glancing  round. 
"Who  do  you  think  my  companion  was?"  he  con 
tinued,  glancing  at  Margaret.  "None  other  than 
an  old  acquaintance — pretty  little  Hetty  Armitage. 
She  has  some  other  name  now,  but  I  forget  what 
it  is.  She  said  she  came  up  to  town  on  purpose 
to  see  me,  but  I  could  not  induce  her  to  come  to 
the  house.  WTiat  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Everett?" 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Hetty  Armitage.  Did  she 
give  you  her  address?" 

"No,  I  did  not  ask  her.     I  wonder  why  she 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

hurried  off  so  quickly ;  but  she  seemed  in  a  queer, 
excitable  state.  I  don't  believe  she  is  well." 

"I  want  to  see  her  again,"  continued  Mrs. 
Everett.  "I  may  as  well  say  frankly  that  I  am 
fully  convinced  there  is  something  queer  about  that 
woman — a  very  little  more  and  I  should  put  a  de 
tective  on  her  track.  I  suspect  her.  If  ever  a 
woman  carried  a  guilty  secret  she  does." 

u  Oh,  come,"  said  Margaret,  "  you  must  not  allow 
your  prejudices  to  run  away  with  you.  Please  re 
member  that  Hetty  grew  up  at  Grandcourt.  My 
husband  and  I  have  known  her  almost  from  her 
birth." 

"A  giddy  little  thing,  but  wonderfully  pretty," 
said  Awdrey. 

"Well,  never  mind  about  her  now,"  interrupted 
Margaret,  a  slight  touch  of  impatience  in  her 
manner.  u  Please,  Robert,  tell  me  exactly  what 
Dr.  Rumsey  ordered  for  you." 

"Nothing  very  alarming,"  he  replied;  "the  doc 
tor  thinks  my  nerves  want  tone.  No  doubt  they 
do,  although  I  feel  wonderfully  better  this  morning. 
He  said  something  about  my  leaving  England  for  a 
time  and  taking  a  sea  voyage.  I  believe  he  intends 
to  call  round  this  evening  to  talk'over  the  scheme. 
Now,  little  man,  are  you  ready  for  your  walk?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  child.  He  stamped  his  sturdy 
feet  with  impatience.  Awdrey  took  his  hand  and 
the  two  went  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Serpentine. 
Mrs.  Everett  and  Margaret  followed  slowly  in  the 
background. 


DR.  RUMSET'S  PATIENT.  157 

Awdrey  remained  out  for  some  time  with  the 
boy.  The  day,  which  had  begun  by  being  mild 
and  spring-like,  suddenly  changed  its  character. 
The  wind  blew  strongly  from  the  north — soon  it 
rose  to  a  gale.  Piles  of  black  clouds  came  up  over 
the  horizon  and  covered  the  sky,  then  heavy  sleet 
showers  poured  down  with  biting  intensity. 
Awdrey  and  the  child  were  quite  in  the  open  when 
they  were  caught  by  one  of  these,  and  before  they 
could  reach  any  shelter  they  were  wet  through. 
They  hurried  into  the  first  hansom  they  met,  but 
not  before  the  mischief  was  done.  Awdrey  took  a 
chill,  and  before  the  evening  was  over  he  was 
shivering  violently,  huddled  up  close  to  the  fire. 
The  boy,  whose  lungs  were  his  weak  point,  seemed, 
however,  to  have  escaped  without  any  serious  result 
— he  went  to  bed  in  his  usual  high  spirits,  but  his 
mother  thought  his  pretty  baby  voice  sounded  a 
little  hoarse.  Early  the  next  morning  the  nurse 
called  her  up ;  the  child  had  been  disturbed  in  the 
night  by  the  hoarseness  and  a  croupy  sensation  in 
his  throat;  his  eyes  were  now  very  bright  and  he 
was  feverish.  The  nurse  said  she  did  not  like  the 
look  of  the  little  fellow ;  he  seemed  to  find  it  dif 
ficult  to  breathe,  and  he  was  altogether  very  unlike 
himself. 

"I'll  send  a  messenger  immediately  for  Dr. 
Rumsey,"  said  Margaret. 

She  returned  to  her  bedroom  and  awoke  her  hus 
band,  who  was  in  a  heavy  sleep.  At  Margaret's 
first  words  he  started  up  keen  and  interested. 


158  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Maggie?  The  boy — little 
Arthur— ill?" 

"  Yes,  he  seems  very  ill ;  I  do  not  like  his  look 
at  all," she  replied.  "It  is  I  know,  very  early,  but 
I  think  I'll  send  a  messenger  round  at  once  to  ask 
Dr.  Rumsey  to  call." 

"We  ought  not  to  lose  a  minute,"  said  Awdrey. 
"I'll  go  for  him  myself." 

"You!"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise.  "But  do 
you  feel  well  enough?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with 
me." 

He  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  rushed  off  to  his 
dressing-room,  hastily  put  on  his  clothes,  and  then 
went  out.  As  he  ran  quickly  downstairs  Marga 
ret  detected  an  almost  forgotten  quality  in  his 
steps. 

"Why,  he  is  awake  again,"  she  cried.  "How 
strange  that  this  trouble  about  the  child  should 
have  power  to  give  him  back  his  old  vigorous 
health!" 

Bumsey  quickly  obeyed  Awdrey 's  summons, 
and  before  eight  o'clock  that  morning  he  was  bend 
ing  over  the  sick  child's  cot. 

It  needed  but  a  keen  glance  and  an  application 
of  the  stethoscope  to  tell  the  doctor  that  there  was 
grave  mischief  at  work. 

"It  is  a  pity  I  was  not  sent  for  last  night,"  he 
said.  Then  he  moved  away  from  the  cot,  where 
the  bright  eyes  of  the  sick  baby  were  fixing  him 
with  a  too  penetrating  stare. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  159 

He  walked  across  the  large  nursery.  Awdrey 
followed  him. 

"The  child  is  very  ill,"  said  the  doctor. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  replied  Awdrey.  "Very 
ill — do  you  infer  that  the  child  is  in  danger?" 

"Yes,  Awdrey,  he  is  undoubtedly  in  danger. 
Double  pneumonia  has  set  in.  Such  a  complaint 
at  his  tender  age  cannot  but  mean  very  grave 
danger.  I  only  hope  we  may  pull  him  through." 

"  We  must  pull  him  through,  doctor.  Margaret, " 
continued  her  husband,  his  face  was  white  as  death, 
"Dr.  Riumsey  says  that  the  child  is  in  danger." 

"Yes,"  answered  Margaret.  She  was  as  quiet 
in  her  manner  as  he  was  excited  and  troubled. 
She  laid  her  hand  now  with  great  tenderness  on  his 
arm.  The  touch  was  meant  to  soothe  him,  and  to 
assure  him  of  her  sypmathy .  Then  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  fix  them  on  the  doctor. 

"I  know  you  will  do  what  you  can,"  she  said. 
There  was  suppressed  passion  in  her  words. 

"Kest  assured  I  will,"  he  answered. 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Awdrey.  " Listen  to  me,  Dr. 
Rumsey,  not  a  stone  must  be  left  unturned  to  pull 
the  child  through.  You  know  what  his  life  means 
to  us — to  his  mother  and  me.  We  cannot  possibly 
.spare  him — he  must  be  saved.  Had  we  not  better 
get  other  advice  immediately  ?" 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  but  you  must  please  your 
selves,  "  answered  Rumsey .  "  I  am  not  a  specialist 
as  regards  lung  affections,  although  this  case  is 
perfectly  straightforward.  If  you  wish  to  have  a 


160  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

specialist  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  consult  with  Ed 
ward  Cowley." 

"  What  is  his  address?  I'll  go  for  him  at  once," 
said  Awdrey. 

Dr.  Eumsey  sat  down,  wrote  a  short  note  and 
gave  it  to  Awdrey,  who  hurried  off  with  it. 

Dr.  Eumsey  looked  at  Mrs.  Awdrey  after  her 
husband  had  left  the  room. 

"It  is  marvellous,"  he  said,  "what  a  change  for 
the  better  this  illness  has  made  in  your  husband's 
condition." 

Her  eyes  filled  slowly  with  tears. 

"Is  his  health  to  be  won  back  at  such  a  price?" 
she  asked — she  turned  once  again  to  the  sick  child's 
bed. 

"  God  grant  not,"  said  the  doctor — "  rest  satisfied 
that  what  man  can  do  to  save  him  I  will  do." 

"  I  know  that, "  she  replied. 

In  an  hour's  time  the  specialist  arrived  and  the 
two  doctors  had  their  consultation.  Certain  reme 
dies  were  prescribed,  and  Dr.  Bumsey  hurried 
away  promising  to  send  in  two  trained  nurses  im 
mediately.  He  came  back  again  himself  at  noon  to 
find  the  boy,  as  he  expected,  much  worse.  The 
child  was  now  delirious.  All  during  that  long 
dreadful  day  the  fever  rose  and  rose.  The  whole 
aspect  of  the  house  in  Seymour  Street  was  altered. 
There  were  hushed  steps,  anxious  faces,  whispered 
consultations.  As  the  hours  flew  by  the  prognos 
tications  of  the  medical  men  became  graver  and 
graver.  Margaret  gave  up  hope  as  the  evening  ap- 


Dtt.  KUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  161 

preached.  She  knew  that  the  little  life  could  not 
long  stand  the  strain  of  that  all-consuming  fever. 
Awdrey  alone  was  full  of  bustle,  excitement,  and 
confidence. 

"The  child  will  and  must  recover,"  he  said  to 
his  wife  several  times.  When  the  night  began  Dr. 
Kumsey  resolved  not  to  leave  the  child. 

"A  man  like  Rumsey  must  save  him,"  cried  the 
father.  He  forgot  all  about  his  own  nervous 
symptoms — he  refused  even  to  listen  to  his  wife's 
words  of  anxiety. 

"Poohl"  he  said,  "when  children  are  ill  they 
are  always  very  bad.  I  was  at  death's  door  once 
or  twice  myself  as  a  child.  Children  are  bad  one 
moment  and  almost  themselves  the  next.  Is  not 
that  so,  doctor?" 

"In  some  cases,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  in  this  case?  You  think  the  boy  will  be 
all  right  in  the  morning — come  now,  your  honest 
opinion." 

"My  honest  opinion  is  a  grave  one,  Mr. 
Awdrey." 

Awdrey  laughed.  There  was  a  wild  note  in  his 
merriment. 

"  You  and  Cowley  can't  be  up  to  much  if  between 
you  you  can't  manage  to  keep  the  life  in  a  little 
mite  like  that,"  he  said. 

"  Tho  issues  of  life  and  death  belong  to  higher 
than  us,"  answered  the  doctor  slowly. 

Awdrey  looked  at  him  again,  gave  an  incredulous 
smile,  and  went  into  the  sick-room. 


162  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

During  the  entire  night  the  father  sat  up  with 
the  boy.  The  sick  child  did  not  know  either 
parent.  His  voice  grew  weaker  and  weaker — the 
struggle  to  breathe  became  greater.  When  he  had 
strength  to  speak,  he  babbled  continually  of  his 
playthings,  of  his  walk  by  the  Serpentine  the  pre 
vious  day,  and  the  little  ships  as  they  sailed  on 
the  water.  Presently  he  took  a  fancy  into  his  head 
that  he  was  in  one  of  the  tiny  ships,  and  that  he 
was  sailing  away  from  shore.  He  laughed  with 
feeble  pleasure,  and  tried  to  clap  his  burning  hands. 
Toward  morning  his  baby  notes  were  scarcely  dis 
tinguishable.  He  dozed  off  for  a  little,  then  woke 
again,  and  began  to  talk — he  talked  now  all  the 
time  of  his  father. 

a'Ittle  boy  'ove  dad,"  he  said.  "'Ittle  Arthur 
'oves  dad  best  of  anybody — best  of  all." 

Awdrey  managed  to  retain  one  of  the  small  hands 
in  his.  The  child  quieted  down  then,  gave  him  a 
look  of  long,  unutterable  love,  and  about  six  in  the 
morning,  twenty-four  hours  after  the  seizure  had 
declared  itself,  the  little  spirit  passed  away. 
Awdrey,  who  was  kneeling  by  the  child's  cot,  still 
holding  his  hand,  did  not  know  when  this  hap 
pened.  There  was  a  sudden  bustle  round  the  bed, 
he  raised  his  head  with  a  start,  and  looked  around 
him. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Is  he  better?"  he  asked. 
He  looked  anxiously  at  the  sunken  face  of  the  dead 
child.  He  noticed  that  the  hurried  breathing  had 
ceased. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  163 

"Come  away  with,  me,  Robert,"  said  his  wife. 

"Why  so?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  think  I  will 
leave  the  child?" 

"Darling,  the  child  is  dead." 

Awdrey  tottered  to  his  feet. 

"Dead!"  he  cried.  You  don't  mean  it— im 
possible."  He  bent  over  the  little  body,  pulled 
down  the  bedclothes,  and  put  his  hand  to  the  heart, 
then  bending  low  he  listened  intently  for  any 
breath  to  come  from  the  parted  lips. 

"Dead — no,  no,"  he  said  again. 

"My  poor  fellow,  it  is  too  true,"  said  Dr.  Rum- 
sey. 

"Then  before  God,"  began  Awdrey — he  stepped 
back,  the  words  were  arrested  on  his  lips,  and  he 
fell  fainting  to  the  floor. 

Dr.  Rumsey  had  him  removed  to  his  own  room, 
and  with  some  difficulty  the  unhappy  man  was 
brought  back  to  consciousness.  He  was  now  lying 
on  his  bed. 

"  Where  am  I?"  he  asked. 

"In  your  room,  on  your  bed.  You  are  better 
now,  dearest, "  said  Margaret.  She  bent  over  him, 
trying  valiantly  to  conceal  her  own  anguish  in 
order  to  comfort  him. 

"But  what  has  happened?"  he  asked.  He  sud 
denly  sat  up.  "Why  are  you  here,  Rumsey? 
Margaret,  why  are  your  eyes  so  red?" 

Margaret  Awdrey  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come  to  her  lips. 

Rumsey  bent  forward  and  took  Awdrey 's  hand. 


164  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"It  has  pleased  Providence  to  afflict  you  very 
sorely,  my  poor  fellow,"  he  said,  "but  I  know  for 
your  wife's  sake  you  will  be  man  enough  to  endure 
this  fearful  blow  with  fortitude." 

"What  blow,  doctor?" 

"  Your  child,"  began  the  doctor. 

"My  child?"  said  Awdrey.  He  put  his  feet  on 
the  floor,  and  stood  up.  There  was  a  strange  ruDte 
of  query  in  his  tone. 

"  My  child?"  he  repeated.     "  What  child?" 

a  Your  child  is  dead,  Awdrey.  We  did  wh&t  we 
could  to  save  him." 

Awdrey  uttered  a  wild  laugh. 

"Come,  this  is  too  much, "he  exclaimed.  "You 
talk  of  a  child  of  mine — I,  who  never  had  a  child. 
What  are  you  dreaming  about?" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ON  the  evening  of  that  same  day  Awdrey  entered 
the  room  where  his  wife  was  silently  giving  way 
to  her  bitter  anguish.  She  was  quite  overcome  by 
her  grief — her  eyelids  were  swollen  by  much  weep 
ing,  her  dress  was  disarranged,  the  traces  of  a 
sleepless  night,  and  the  fearful  anguish  through 
which  she  was  passing,  were  visible  on  her  beauti 
ful  face.  Awdrey,  who  had  come  into  the  room 
almost  cheerfully,  started  and  stepped  back  a  pace 
or  two  when  he  saw  her — he  then  knit  his  brows 
with  marked  irritation. 

"  What  can  be  the  matter  with  you,  Margaret?" 
he  cried.  "  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  are  crying 
in  that  silly  way." 

"I'll  try  not  to  cry  any  more,  Eobert,"  she  an 
swered. 

"  Yes,  but  you  look  in  such  dreadful  distress ;  I 
assure  you,  it  affects  me  most  disagreeably,  and 
in  my  state  of  nerves ! — you  know,  don't  you,  that 
nothing  ever  annoys  me  more  than  weak,  womanish 
tears." 

"It  is  impossible  forme  to  be  cheerful  to-night," 
said  the  wife.  "  The  pain  is  too  great.  He  was 
our  only  child,  and  such — such  a,  darling." 


168  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Awdrey  laughed. 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I really  would 
not  hurt  your  feelings  for  the  world,  but  you  must 
know,  if  you  allow  your  common  sense  to  speak, 
that  we  never  had  a  child.  It  has  surely  been  one 
of  our  great  trials  that  no  child  has  been  given  to 
us  to  carry  on  the  old  line.  My  poor  Maggie,"  he 
went  up  to  her  quite  tenderly,  put  his  arm  round 
her  neck,  and  kissed  her,  "  you  must  be  very  un 
well  to  imagine  these  sort  of  things." 

She  suddenly  took  the  hand  which  lay  on  her 
shoulder  between  both  her  own. 

"Come  with  me,  Robert,"  she  said,  an  expres 
sion  of  the  most  intense  despair  on  all  her  features, 
"come,  I  cannot  believe  that  this  blight  which 
has  passed  over  you  can  be  final.  I'll  take  you  to 
the  room  where  the  little  body  of  our  beautiful 
child  is  lying.  When  you  see  that  sweet  face, 
surely  you  will  remember." 

He  frowned  when  she  began  to  speak ;  now  he 
disengaged  his  hand  from  her  clasp. 

"It  would  not  be  right  for  me  to  humor  you," 
he  said.  "  You  ought  to  see  a  doctor,  Maggie,  for 
you  are  really  suffering  from,  a  strong  delusion. 
If  you  encourage  it  it  may  become  fixed,  and  even 
assume  the  proportions  of  a  sort  of  insanity.  Now, 
my  dear  wife,  try  and  restrain  yourself  and  listen 
to  me." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes.  As  he 
spoke  she  had  difficulty  in  believing  her  own  ears. 
A  case  like  his  was  indeed  new  to  her.  She  had 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  167 

never  really  believed  in  the  tragedy  of  his  house — • 
but  now  at  last  the  suspected  and  dreaded  blow  had 
truly  fallen.  Awdrey,  like  his  ancestors  before 
him,  was  forgetting  the  grave  events  of  life.  Was 
it  possible  that  he  could  forget  the  child,  whose 
life  had  been  the  joy  of  his  existence,  whose  last 
looks  of  love  had  been  directed  to  him,  whose  last 
faltering  words  had  breathed  his  name?  Yes,  he 
absolutely  forgot  all  about  the  child.  The  stern 
fact  stared  her  in  the  face,  she  could  not  shut  her 
eyes  to  it. 

"You  look  at  me  strangely,  Margaret,"  said 
Awdrey.  "I  cannot  account  for  your  looks,  nor 
indeed  for  your  actions  during  the  whole  of  to-day. 
Now  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  have  resolved  to  carry 
out  Rumsey's  advice — he  wants  me  to  leave  home 
at  once.  I  spent  a  night  with  him — was  it  last 
night?  I  really  forget — but  anyhow,  during  that 
time  he  had  an  opportunity  of  watching  my  symp 
toms.  You  know,  don't  you,  how  nervous  I  am, 
how  full  of  myself?  You  know  how  this  inertia 
steals  over  me,  and  envelops  me  in  a  sort  of  cloud. 
The  state  of  the  case  is  something  like  this,  Mag 
gie  ;  I  feel  as  if  a  dead  hand  were  pressed  against 
my  heart;  sometimes  I  have  even  a  difficulty  in 
breathing,  at  least  in  taking  a  deep  breath.  It 
seems  to  me  as  if  the  stupor  of  death  were  creep 
ing  up  my  body,  gradually  day  by  day,  enfeebling 
all  my  powers  more  and  more.  Rumsey,  who 
quite  understands  these  symptoms,  says  that  they 
are  grave,  but  not  incurable.  He  suggests  that  I 


168  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

should  leave  London  and  at  once.  I  propose  to 
take  the  eight  o'clock  Continental  train.  Will  you 
come  with  me?" 

"I?"  she  cried.  "I  cannot;  our  child's  little 
body  lies  upstairs." 

"Why  will  you  annoy  me  by  referring  to  that 
delusion  of  yours?  You  must  know  how  painful 
it  is  to  listen  to  you.  Will  you  come,  Maggie?" 

"I  cannot.  Under  any  other  circumstances  I 
would  gladly,  but  to-night,  no,  it  is  impossible." 

"Very  well  then,  I'll  go  alone.  I  have  just  been 
up  in  my  room  packing  some  things.  I  cannot 
possibly  say  how  long  I  shall  be  absent — perhaps 
a  few  weeks,  perhaps  a  day  or  two — I  must  be 
guided  in  this  matter  by  my  sensations." 

"If  you  come  back  in  a  day  or  two,  Robert,  I'll 
try  and  go  abroad  with  you,  if  you  really  think  it 
would  do  you  good,"  said  Margaret. 

"I'll  see  about  that,"  he  replied.  "I  cannot 
quite  tell  you  what  my  plans  are  to-night.  Mean 
while  I  find  I  shall  want  more  money  than  I  have 
in  the  house.  Have  you  any  by  you?" 

"I  have  twenty-five  pounds." 

"Give  it  to  me;  it  will  be  quite  sufficient.  I 
have  about  fifteen  pounds  here."  He  touched  his 
breast-pocket.  "If  I  don't  return  soon  I'll  write 
to  you.  Now  good-by,  Maggie.  Try  and  con 
quer  that  queer  delusion,  my  dear  wife.  Remem 
ber,  the  more  you  think  of  it,  the  more  it  will  feed 
upon  itself,  until  you  will  find  it  too  strong  for 
you.  Good-by,  darling." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  169 

She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  I  cannot  describe  what  my  feelings  are  at  this 
awful  moment,"  she  said.  "Is  it  right  for  me  to 
let  you  go  alone?" 

"  Perfectly  right,  dearest.  What  possible  harm 
can  come  to  me?"  he  said  with  tenderness.  He 
pushed  back  the  rich  black  hair  from  her  brow  as 
he  spoke. 

"You  love  me,  Robert?"  she  cried  suddenly — 
"at  least  your  love  for  me  remains?" 

He  knit  his  brows. 

"If  there  is  any  one  I  love,  it  is  you,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  do  not  know  that  I  love  any  one — it  is  this 
inertia,  dearest" — he  touched  his  breast — "  it  buries 
love  beneath  it,  it  buries  all  emotion.  You  are  not 
to  blame.  If  I  could  conquer  it  my  love  for  you 
would  be  as  full,  as  fresh,  and  strong  as  ever. 
Good-by  now.  Take  care  of  yourself.  If  those 
strange  symptoms  continue  pray  consult  Dr. 
Kumsey." 

He  went  out  of  the  room. 

Margaret  was  too  stricken  and  stunned  to  follow 
him. 

A  few  days  later  a  child's  funeral  left  the  house 
in  Seymour  Street.  Margaret  followed  her  child 
to  the  grave.  She  then  returned  home,  wondering 
if  she  could  possibly  endure  the  load  which  had 
fallen  upon  her.  The  house  seemed  empty — she 
did  not  think  anything  could  ever  fill  it  again. 
Her  own  heart  was  truly  empty — she  felt  as  if 
there  were  a  gap  within  it  which  could  never  by 


170  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

any  possibility  be  closed  up  again.  Since  the  night 
after  her  child's  death  she  had  heard  nothing  from 
her  husband — sometimes  she  wondered  if  he  were 
still  alive. 

Dr.  Rumsey  tried  to  reassure  her  on  this  point — 
he  did  not  consider  Awdrey  the  sort  of  man  to 
commit  suicide. 

Mrs.  Everett  came  to  see  Margaret  every  day 
during  this  time  of  terrible  grief,  but  her  excited 
face,  her  watchful  attitude,  proved  the  reverse 
of  soothing.  She  was  sorry  for  Margaret,  but 
even  in  the  midst  of  Margaret's  darkest  grief 
she  never  forgot  the  mission  she  had  set  before 
herself. 

On  the  morning  of  the  funeral  she  followed  the 
procession  at  a  little  distance.  She  stood  behind 
the  more  immediate  group  of  mourners  as  the  body 
of  the  beautiful  child  was  laid  in  his  long  home. 
Had  his  father  been  like  other  men,  Margaret 
would  never  have  consented  to  the  child's  being 
buried  anywhere  except  at  Grandcourt.  Under  ex 
isting  circumstances,  however,  she  had  no  energy 
to  arrange  this. 

About  an  hour  after  Mrs.  Awdrey's  return,  Mrs. 
Everett  was  admitted  into  her  presence. 

Margaret  was  seated  listlessly  by  one  of  the  tables 
in  the  drawing-room.  A  pile  of  black-edged  paper 
was  lying  near  her — a  letter  was  begun.  Heaps  of 
letters  of  condolence  which  had  poured  in  lay  near. 
She  was  endeavoring  to  answer  one,  but  found  the 
task  beyond  her  strength. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  171 

"My  poor  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Everett.  She 
walked  up  tlie  long  room,  and  stooping  down  by 
Margaret,  kissed  her. 

Margaret  mechanically  returned  her  ei  ibrace. 
Mrs.  Everett  untied  her  bonnet-strings  and  sat  by 
her  side. 

"  Don't  try  to  answer  those  letters  yet,"  she  said. 
u  You  are  really  not  fit  for  it.  Why  don't  you  have 
a  composing  draught  and  go  to  bed?" 

"I  would  rather  not;  the  awakening  would  be 
too  terrible,"  said  Margaret. 

"  You  will  knock  yourself  up  and  get  really  ill  if 
you  go  on  like  this." 

"  It  does  not  matter,  Mrs.  Everett,  whether  I  am 
ill  or  well.  Nothing  matters, "  said  Margaret,  in  a 
voice  of  despair. 

"Oh,  my  poor  love,  I  understand  you,"  said  the 
widow.  "  I  do  not  know  in  what  words  to  approach 
your  terribly  grieved  heart — there  is  only  one  thing 
which  I  feel  impelled  to  say,  and  which  may  pos 
sibly  at  some  time  comfort  you.  Your  beautiful 
boy's  fate  is  less  tragical  than  the  fate  which  has 
fallen  upon  my  only  son.  When  Frank  was  a  little 
child,  Margaret,  he  had  a  dreadful  illness — I 
thought  he  would  die.  I  was  frantic,  for  his  father 
had  died  not  long  before.  I  prayed  earnestly  to 
God.  I  vowed  a  vow  to  train  the  boy  in  the  paths 
of  righteousness,  as  never  boy  had  been  trained 
before.  I  vowed  to  do  for  Frank  what  no  other 
mother  had  ever  done,  if  only  God  would  leave  him 
to  me.  My  prayer  was  answered,  and  my  child 


172  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

was  saved.  Think  of  him  now,  Margaret.  Mar 
garet,  think  of  him  now. " 

u  I  do, "  answered  Margaret.  "  I  have  always  felt 
for  you — my  heart  has  always  been  bitter  with 
grief  for  you — don't  you  know  it?" 

u  I  do,  I  do — you  have  been  the  soul  of  all  that 
could  be  sweet  and  dear  to  me.  Except  Frank 
Mmself,  I  love  no  one  as  I  love  you.  Ah !" — Mrs. 
Everett  suddenly  started  to  her  feet — the  room 
door  had  been  slowly  opened  and  Awdrey  walked 
in.  His  face  was  very  pale  and  more  emaciated 
looking  than  ever — his  eyes  were  bright,  and  had 
sunk  into  his  head. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  queer  assumption 
of  cheerfulness,  "  here  I  am.  I  came  back  sooner 
than  I  expected.  How  are  you  Maggie?"  He 
went  up  to  his  wife  and  kissed  her.  "  How  do  you 
do,  Mrs.  Everett?" 

u  I  am  well, "  said  Mrs.  Everett.  u  How  are  you, 
are  you  better?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  much  better — in  fact,  there  is  little 
or  nothing  the  matter  with  me. " 

He  sat  down  on  a  sofa  as  he  spoke  and  stared  at 
his  wife  with  a  puzzled  expression  between  his 
brows. 

u  What  in  the  world  are  you  in  that  heavy  black 
for?"  he  said  suddenly. 

"  I  must  wear  it, "  she  said.  "  You  cannot  ask 
me  to  take  it  off. " 

"Why  should  I  ask  you?"  he  replied.  "Do  not 
excite  yourself  in  that  way,  Maggie.  If  you  like 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  173 

to  look  hideous,  do  so.  Black,  heavy  black,  of 
that  sort,  does  not  suit  you — and  you  are  absolute 
ly  in  crepe — what  does  all  this  mean?  It  irritates 
me  immensely." 

"People  wear  crepe  when  those  they  love  die," 
said  Margaret. 

"Have  you  lost  a  relation? — "Who?" 

She  did  not  answer.  A  moment  later  she  left 
the  room. 

When  she  did  so  Awdrey  got  up  restlessly, 
walked  to  the  fire  and  poked  it,  then  he  approached 
the  window  and  looked  out.  After  a  time  he  re 
turned  to  his  seat.  Mrs.  Everett  sat  facing  him. 
It  was  her  wont  to  sit  very  still — often  nothing 
seemed  to  move  about  her  except  her  watchful  eyes. 
To-day  she  had  more  than  ever  the  expression  of  a 
person  who  is  quietly  watching  and  waiting.  Aw 
drey,  inert  as  he  doubtlessly  was,  seemed  to  feel 
her  gaze — he  looked  at  her. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Mr.  Awdrey?"  she  asked 
gently.  "Did  you  visit  the  Continent?" 

He  favored  her  with  a  keen,  half-suspicious 
glance. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  changed  my  mind  about 
that.  I  did  not  wish  the  water  to  divide  me  from 
my  quest.  I  have  been  engaged  on  a  most  impor 
tant  search." 

"And  what  was  that?"  she  asked  gently. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  a  stick  which  I  missed 
some  years  ago." 

"I  have  heard  you  mention  that  before,"  said 


174  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Mrs.  Everett — the  color  flushed  hotly  into  her 
face.  "  You  seem  to  attribute  a  great  deal  of  im 
portance  to  that  trifle." 

"  To  me  it  is  no  trifle,"  he  replied.  u  I  regard  it 
as  a  link,"  he  continued  slowly,  "between  me  and 
a  past  which  I  have  forgotten.  When  I  find  that 
stick  I  shall  remember  the  past." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  again  and  going  to  the 
hearth-rug  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

At  that  moment  Margaret  re-entered  the  room 
in  white — she  was  in  a  soft,  flowing,  white  robe, 
which  covered  her  from  top  to  toe — it  swept  about 
her  in  graceful  folds,  and  exposed  some  of  the 
lovely  contour  of  her  arms.  Her  face  was  nearly 
as  colorless  as  her  dress ;  only  the  wealth  of  thick 
dark  hair,  only  the  sombre  eyes,  relieved  the  mo 
notony  of  her  appearance.  Awdrey  gave  her  a 
smile  and  a  look  of  approval. 

"  Come  here, "  he  said :  "  now  you  are  good — how 
sweet  you  look.  Your  appearance  makes  me  re 
call,  recall "  He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  fore 
head.  " I  remember  now,"  he  said;  "I  recall  the 
day  we  were  engaged — don't  you  remember  it? — the 
picnic  on  Salisbury  Plain;  you  were  all  in  white 
then,  too,  and  you  wore  somewhat  the  same  intense 
expression  in  your  eyes.  Margaret,  you  are  a 
beautiful  woman." 

She  stood  close  to  him — he  did  not  offer  to  kiss 
her,  but  he  laid  one  emaciated  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  looked  earnestly  into  her  face. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,"  he  said;  "I  wonder  I 


DR.   RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  175 

do  not  love  you."  He  sighed  heavily,  and  removed 
his  gaze  to  look  intently  into  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Everett  rose. 

"I'll  come  again  soon,"  she  said  to  Margaret. 
Margaret  took  no  notice  of  her,  nor  did  Awdrey 
see  when  she  left  the  room. 

After  a  moment  Margaret  went  up  to  her  husband 
and  touched  him. 

"  You  must  have  something  to  eat, "  she  said. 
"  It  is  probably  a  long  time  since  you  had  a  proper 
meal." 

"I  don't  remember,"  he  replied,  "but  I  am  not 
hungry.  By  the  way,  Maggie,  I  recall  now  what  I 
came  back  for."  His  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  lit 
from  within,  became  suddenly  full  of  excitement. 

"Yes,"  she  said  as  gently  as  she  could. 

"I  came  back  because  I  wanted  you." 

Her  eyes  brightened. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me.  I  do  not  care 
to  be  alone,  and  I  am  anxious  to  leave  London 
again  to-night." 

Before  Margaret  could  reply  the  butler  threw 
open  the  door  and  announced  Dr.  Eumsey.  The 
doctor  came  quickly  forward. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  returned,  Awdrey,"  he  said, 
holding  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke.  "  I  called  to 
inquire  for  your  wife,  and  the  man  told  me  you 
were  upstairs." 

"Yes,  and  I  am  better,"  said  Awdrey.  "I  came 
back  because  I  thought  perhaps  Margaret — but  by 
the  way,  why  should  I  speak  so  much  about  my- 


176  DR.  RUMSET'S  PATIENT. 

self?  My  wife  was  not  well  when  I  left  her.  I 
hope,  doctor,  that  she  consulted  you,  and  that  she 
is  now  much  better." 

"  Considering  all  things,  Mrs.  Awdrey  is  fairly 
well,"  said  Bumsey. 

"And  she  has  quite  got  over  that  delusion?" 

"  Quite. "    The  doctor's  voice  was  full  of  decision. 

Margaret  shuddered  and  turned  away. 

Bumsey  seated  himself  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  fire,  but  Awdrey  remained  standing.  He  stood 
in  such  a  position  that  the  doctor  could  get  a  per 
fect  view  of  him.  Bumsey  did  not  fail  to  avail 
himself  of  so  excellent  a  moment  for  studying  this 
queer  case.  He  observed  the  wasted  face  of  his 
patient;  the  unnaturally  large  and  bright  eyes ;  the 
lips  which  used  to  be  firm  as  a  line,  and  which  gave 
considerable  character  to  the  face,  but  which  had 
now  become  loose  and  had  a  habit  of  drooping 
slightly  open;  the  brows,  too,  worked  at  times 
spasmodically,  and  the  really  noble  forehead,  which 
in  old  times  betokened  intelligence  to  a  marked  de 
gree,  was  now  furrowed  with  many  lines.  While 
Bumsey  watched  he  also  made  up  his  mind. 

u  I  must  tear  the  veil  from  that  man's  eyes  at  any 
cost,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  gave  Margaret  a 
glance  and  she  left  the  room.  The  moment  she  did 
so  the  doctor  stood  up. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  returned,"  he  said. 

"How  strange  of  you  to  say  that,"  answered 
Awdrey.  "  Do  you  not  remember  you  were  the 
man  who  ordered  me  away?" 


DR.  HUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  177 

"  I  do  remember  that  fact  perfectly,  but  since  I 
gave  you  that  prescription  a  very  marked  chang^ 
has  taken  place  in  your  condition." 

"  Do  you  think  me  worse?" 

"In  one  sense  you  are." 

Awdrey  laughed. 

"How  queer  that  you  should  say  that,"  he  said, 
*  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  really  feel  better;  I  am 
not  quite  so  troubled  by  inertia." 

"  I  must  be  frank  with  you,  Awdrey.  I  consider 
you  very  ill." 

Awdrey  started  when  Eumsey  said  this. 

"Pray  speak  out,  doctor,  I  dislike  riddles,"  he 
replied. 

"I  mean  to  speak  out  very  plainly.  Awdrey, 
my  poor  fellow,  I  am  obliged  to  remind  you  of  the 
strange  history  of  your  house." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Awdrey — "the  his 
tory  of  my  house?"  he  continued;  "  there  is  a  psy 
chological  history,  which  I  dislike  to  think  of;  is 
it  to  that  you  refer?" 

"Yes,  I  refer  to  the  queer  condition  of  brain 
which  men  of  your  house  have  inherited  for  several 
generations.  It  is  a  queer  doom ;  I  am  forced  to 
say  it  is  an  awful  doom.  Eobert  Awdrey,  it  has 
fallen  upon  you." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Awdrey,  "but  you 
never  would  believe  it  before." 

"  I  had  not  cause  to  believe  it  before.  Now  I 
fully  believe  it.  That  lapse  of  memory,  which  is 
*>ne  of  its  remarkable  symptoms,  has  taken  place  in 


178  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

your  case.  You  have  forgotten  a  very  important 
fact  in  your  life." 

"Ah,  you  are  wrong  there,"  said  Awdrey.  "I 
certainly  have  forgotten  my  walking-stick.  I  know 
well  that  I  am  a  queer  fellow.  I  know  too  that  at 
times  my  condition  is  the  reverse  of  satisfactory, 
but  with  this  one  exception  I  have  never  forgotten 
anything  of  the  least  consequence.  Don't  you  re 
member  telling  me  that  the  lapse  of  memory  was 
not  of  any  moment?" 

"  It  was  not,  but  you  have  forgotten  something 
else,  Awdrey,  and  it  is  my  duty  now  to  remind  you 
of  it." 

"I  have  forgotten?"    began  Awdrey.      "Well, 


"You  had  a  child — a  beautiful  child." 

Awdrey  interrupted  with  a  laugh. 

"I  do  declare  you  have  got  that  delusion,  too," 
he  said.  "  I  tell  you,  Dr.  Rumsey,  I  never  had  a 
child." 

a  Your  child  is  no  longer  with  you,  but  you  had 
a  child.  He  lived  for  four  years  but  is  now  dead. 
This  very  afternoon  he  was  laid  in  his  grave.  He 
was  a  beautiful  child — more  lovely  than  most.  He 
died  after  twenty-four  hours'  illness.  His  mother 
is  broken-hearted  over  his  loss,  but  you,  his  father, 
have  forgotten  all  about  it.  Here  is  the  picture  of 
your  child — come  to  the  light  and  look  at  it." 

Rumsey  strode  up  to  a  table  as  he  spoke,  lifted 
a  large  photograph  from  a  stand,  and  held  it  before 
Awdrey 's  eyes. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  1?9 

Awdrey  favoured  it  with  a  careless  glance. 

"I  do  not  know  that  face,"  he  said.  "How  did 
the  photograph  get  here?"  Is  Margaret's  delusion 
really  so  bad?  Does  she  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  the  little  boy  represented  in  that  picture  has 
ever  had  anything  to  do  with  us?" 

"The  photograph  is  a  photograph  of  your  son," 
repeated  Bumsey,  in  a  slow,  emphatic  voice.  As 
he  spoke  he  laid  the  picture  back  again  on  its  ebony 
stand.  "Awdrey,"  he  continued,  "I  cannot  ex 
pect  impossibilities — I  cannot  expect  you  to  remem 
ber  what  you  have  absolutely  forgotten,  but  it  is 
my  duty  to  tell  you  frankly  that  this  condition  of 
things,  if  not  immediately  arrested,  will  lead  to 
complete  atrophy  of  your  mental  system,  and  you, 
in  short,  will  not  long  survive  it.  You  told  me 
once  very  graphically  that  you  were  a  man  who 
carried  about  with  you  a  dead  soul.  I  did  not 
believe  you  then.  Now  I  believe  that  nothing  in 
your  own  description  of  your  case  has  been  exag 
gerated.  In  some  way,  Awdrey,  you  must  get  back 
your  memory." 

"How?"  asked  Awdrey.  He  was  impressed  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  Whether  you  remember  or  not,  you  must  act  as 
though  you  remembered.  You  now  think  that  you 
never  had  a  child.  It  is  your  duty  to  act  as  if  you 
had  one." 

Awdrey  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"That  is  impossible,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  not.    Weak  as  your  will  now  is,  it  is  not 


180  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

yet  so  inert  that  you  cannot  bring  it  to  bear  upon 
the  matter.  I  observe  that  Mrs.  Awdrey  has  taken 
off  her  mourning.  She  must  put  it  on  again.  It 
would  be  the  height  of  all  that  is  heartless  for  her 
to  go  about  now  without  showing  proper  respect  to 
your  beautiful  child.  You  also,  Awdrey,  must 
wear  mourning.  You  must  allow  your  wife  to 
speak  of  the  child.  In  short,  even  though  you 
have  no  belief,  you  must  allow  those  who  are  in  a 
healthy  mental  condition  to  act  for  you  in  this 
matter.  By  doing  so  you  may  possibly  arrest  the 
malady." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Awdrey,  "but  I  do 
not  know  how  it  is  possible  for  me  to  act  on  your 
suggestions." 

"For  your  wife's  sake  you  must  try,  and  also 
because  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  show  re 
spect  to  the  dead  heir  of  your  house." 

u  Then  I  am  to  put  a  band  on  my  hat  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing?" 

"Yes." 

*  It  is  a  trifle,  doctor.  If  you  and  Margaret  wish 
it,  I  cannot  reasonably  refuse.  To  come  back  to 
myself,  however,  you  consider  that  I  am  quite 
doomed?" 

"  Not  quite  yet,  although  your  case  is  a  bad  one. 
I  believe  you  can  be  saved  if  only  you  will  exert 
yourself." 

"  Do  wishes  go  for  anything  in  a  case  like  mine?" 

"Assuredly.  To  hear  you  express  a  wish  is  a 
capital  sign.  What  do  you  want  to  do?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  181 

"  I  have  a  strange  wish  to  go  down  to  the  Court. 
I  feel  as  if  something  or  some  one,  whether  angel 
or  demon  I  do  not  know,  were  drawing  me  there. 
I  have  wished  to  be  at  the  Court  for  some  days. 
I  thought  at  first  of  taking  Margaret  with  me." 

"  Do  so.  She  would  be  glad  to  accompany  you. 
She  is  a  wife  in  a  thousand." 

"But  on  second  thoughts,"  continued  Awdrey, 
"  if  I  am  obliged  to  listen  to  her  bitter  distress  over 
the  death  of  a  child  who  never,  as  far  as  I  can  re 
call,  existed,  I  should  prefer  not  having  her." 

"Very  well  then,  go  alone." 

"  I  cannot  go  alone.  In  the  condition  which  I 
am  now  in,  a  complete  vacuum  in  all  my  thoughts 
may  occur,  and  long  before  I  reach  the  Court  I  may 
forget  where  I  am  going." 

"That  is  possible." 

"  Then,  Rumsey,  will  you  come  with  me?" 

The  doctor  thought  a  moment.  "I'll  go  with 
you  this  evening, "  he  said,  u  but  I  must  return  to 
town  early  to-morrow." 

"Thanks,"  said  Awdrey.  Til  ring  the  bell. 
We  shall  be  in  time,  if  we  start  at  once,  to  catch  the 
five  o'clock  train." 

"  Remember,  Awdrey,  that  I  shall  treat  you  as 
the  child's  father.  You  will  find  all  your  tenantry 
in  a  state  of  poignant  grief.  That  dear  little  fellow 
was  much  loved." 

Awdrey  pursed  up  his  lips  as  if  he  would  whistle. 
A  smile  dawned  in  his  eyes  and  vanished. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

AT  a  late  hour  that  evening  Rumsey  and  his  pa 
tient  arrived  at  Grandcourt.  A  telegram  had  been 
sent  to  announce  their  visit,  and  all  was  in  readi 
ness  for  their  reception.  The  old  butler,  Hawkins, 
who  had  lived  in  the  family  for  nearly  fifty  years, 
came  slowly  down  the  steps  to  greet  his  master. 
Hawkins'  face  was  pale,  and  his  eyes  dim,  as  if  he 
had  been  indulging  in  silent  tears.  He  was  very 
much  attached  to  little  Arthur.  Awdrey  gave  him 
a  careless  nod. 

"I  hope  all  is  in  readiness,  Hawkins,"  he  said, 
"  I  have  brought  my  friend,  Dr.  Rumsey ,  with  me ; 
we  should  like  supper — has  it  been  prepared?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Robert — I  beg  your  pardon,  Squire — 
all  is  in  readiness  in  the  library. " 

u  We'll  go  there  after  we  have  washed  our  hands," 
said  Awdrey.  "What  room  have  you  got  ready 
for  Dr.  Rumsey?" 

"The  yellow  room,  Squire,  in  the  west  wing." 

"  That  will  do  nicely.  Rumsey,  you  and  I  will 
inhabit  the  same  wing  to-night.  I  suppose  I  am 
to  sleep  in  the  room  I  always  occupy,  eh,  Hawkins?" 

"Yes,  sir;  Mrs.  Burnett,  the  housekeeper, 
thought  you  would  wish  that." 

fc  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least  where  I  sleep ; 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  183 

now  order  up  supper,  we  shall  be  down  directly. 
Follow  me,  doctor,  will  you?" 

Dr.  Bumsey  followed  Awdrey  to  the  west  wing. 
A  few  moments  later  the  two  men  were  seated  be 
fore  a  cheerful  meal  in  the  library — a  large  fire 
burned  in  the  huge  grate,  logs  had  been  piled  on, 
and  the  friendly  blaze  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
wood  filled  the  room.  The  supper  table  was  drawn 
into  the  neighborhood  of  the  fire,  and  Awdrey 
lifted  the  cover  from  the  dish  which  was  placed 
before  him  with  a  look  of  appetite  on  his  face. 

"I  am  really  hungry,"  he  said — "we  will  have 
some  champagne — Hawkins,  take  some  from" — he 
named  a  certain  bin.  The  man  retired,  coming 
back  presently  with  some  dusty-looking  bottles. 
The  cork  was  quickly  removed  from  one,  and  the 
butler  began  to  fill  the  glasses. 

Supper  came  to  an  end.  Hawkins  brought  in 
pipes  and  tobacco,  and  the  two  men  sat  before  the 
fire.  Awdrey,  who  had  taken  from  two  to  three 
glasses  of  champagne,  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little 
drowsy,  but  Bumsey  talked  in  his  usual  pleasant 
fashion.  Awdrey  replied  by  fits  and  starts ;  once 
he  nodded  and  half  fell  asleep  in  his  chair. 

"You  are  sleepy,"  said  Eumsey  suddenly;  "if 
you  go  to  bed  now  you  may  have  a  really  good 
night,  which  will  do  wonders  for  you — what  do  you 
say?" 

"  That  I  am  quite  agreeable, "  said  Awdrey,  ris 
ing  as  he  spoke — "  but  is  it  not  too  early  for  you, 
doctor?" 


184  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

*  Not  at  all — an  undisturbed  night  will  be  a  treat 
to  me." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  take  you  to  your  room." 

They  went  upstairs  together,  and  a  moment  later 
Rumsey  found  himself  in  the  palatial  chamber 
which  had  been  prepared  for  him.  He  was  not 
really  sleepy  and  decided  to  sit  up  for  a  little.  A 
fire  burned  in  the  grate,  some  books  lay  about — he 
drew  his  easy-chair  forward  and  taking  up  a  volume 
of  light  literature  prepared  to  dip  into  it— he  found 
that  it  was  Stevenson's  "Treasure  Island,"  a  book 
which  he  had  not  yet  happened  to  read;  the  story 
interested  him,  and  he  read  on  for  some  time. 
Presently  he  closed  the  book,  and  laying  his  head 
against  the  cushion  of  the  chair  dropped  fast  asleep. 

The  events  of  the  day  made  him  dream ;  all  his 
dreams  were  about  his  queer  patient.  He  thought 
that  he  had  followed  Awdrey  on  to  the  Plain — that 
Awdrey's  excitement  grew  worse  and  worse,  until 
the  last  lingering  doubt  was  solved,  and  the  man 
was  in  very  truth  absolutely  insane. 

In  the  midst  of  his  dream  the  doctor  was  awak 
ened  by  a  hand  being  laid  on  his  shoulder — he 
started  up  suddenly — Awdrey,  half-dressed  and 
looking  ghastly  pale,  stood  before  him. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Kumsey.  "Do  you  want 
anything?" 

"I  want  you,"  said  Awdrey.  "Will  you  come 
with  me?" 

"  Certainly — where  am  I  to  go?  Why  are  you 
not  in  bed?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  185 

Awdrey  uttered  a  hollow  laugh.  There  was  a 
ring  of  horror  in  it. 

"You  could  not  sleep  if  you  were  me,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  come  with  me  now,  at  once?" 

"  In  a  moment  or  two  when  you  are  better — sit 
down,  won't  you — here,  take  my  chair — where  do 
you  want  me  to  go?" 

"  Out  with  me,  doctor — out  of  doors.  I  want  you 
to  accompany  me  on  to  the  Plain." 

"All  right,  my  dear  fellow — but  just  allow  me  to 
get  on  my  boots." 

The  doctor  retired  to  a  back  part  of  the  room  to 
change  his  house  shoes.  While  he  was  doing 
so,  Awdrey  "sank  down  on  a  chair  and  laid  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  took  no  notice  of  Bumsey,  but 
stared  straight  before  him  into  the  centre  of  the 
room. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  quick,  doctor,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I  don't  want  to  go  alone,  but  I  must  follow 
it." 

"Follow  what?"  said  Bumsey. 

"It — the  queer  vision — I  have  told  you  of  it 
before." 

"Oh,  yes,  that  bad  dream  you  are  subject  to. 
Well,  I  am  at  your  service  now." 

Awdrey  rose  slowly.  He  pointed  with  one  of  his 
hands. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  he  said  suddenly. 

Bumsey  following  the  direction  of  his  eyes  per 
ceived  that  he  was  staring  into  the  part  of  the  room 
which  was  in  deepest  shadow. 


186  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"I  see  nothing,  Awdrey,"  he  replied  in  a  kind 
and  soothing  voice,  "  but  I  perceive  by  your  manner 
that  you  do.  What  is  it?" 

"I  wonder  you  cannot  see  it,"  replied  Awdrey; 
"  it  is  plain,  too  plain — it  seems  to  fill  all  that  part 
of  the  room." 

"The  old  thing?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  the  old  thing  but  with  a  certain  difference. 
There  is  the  immense  globe  of  light  and  the  picture 
in  the  middle." 

"The  old  picture,  Awdrey?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  with  a  difference.  The  two  men 
are  fighting.  As  a  rule  they  stand  motionless  in 
the  picture,  but  to-night  they  seem  to  have  come 
alive — they  struggle,  they  struggle  hard ;  one  stands 
with  his  back  to  me.  The  face  of  the  other  I  can 
recognize  distinctly.  It  is  the  face  of  that  young 
fellow  who  stayed  a  few  years  ago  at  the  inn  in 
our  village.  Ah !  yes,  of  course,  I  know  his  name, 
Frere — Horace  Frere.  He  has  met  some  one  on 
Salisbury  Plain.  It  is  night;  the  moon  is  hidden 
behind  clouds.  Ha!  now  it  comes  out.  Now  I 
can  see  them  distinctly.  Dr.  Bumsey,  don't  you 
hear  the  blows?  I  do.  They  seem  to  beat  on  my 
brain.  That  man  who  stands  with  his  back  to  us 
carries  my  stick  in  his  hand.  I  know  it  is  mine, 
for  the  whole  thing  is  so  intensely  plain  that  I  can 
even  see  the  silver  tablet  on  which  my  name  is  en 
graved.  My  God !  the  man  also  wears  my  clothes. 
I  would  give  all  that  I  possess  to  see  his  face.  Let 
us  get  on  the  Plain  as  fast  as  we  can.  I  may  be 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  187 

able  to  see  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture  from 
there.  Come  with  me,  come  at  once." 

"Poor  fellow!  matters  get  worse  and  worse," 
thought  the  doctor.  "  Well,  I  must  see  this  thing 
out." 

Aloud  he  said: 

"  How  soon  did  this  vision  come  to  torment  you 
to-night?" 

Awdrey  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"At  first  when  I  went  to  my  room  I  was  sleepy," 
he  said.  "  I  began  to  take  off  my  things.  Then 
I  saw  a  globe  of  light  in  the  further  end  of  the 
room.  At  first  it  was  merely  light  with  no  picture 
in  the  centre.  Then  faint  shadows  began  to  appear, 
and  by  slow  degrees  the  perfect  and  intensely  clear 
picture  which  I  am  now  looking  at  became  visible. 
I  stared  at  it  quite  motionless  for  a  time.  I  was 
absorbed  by  the  deepest  interest.  Then  a  mad 
longing  to  see  the  face  of  the  man  who  stands  with 
his  back  to  us,  came  over  me.  I  walked  about  the 
room  trying  hard  to  get  even  a  side  view  of  him, 
but  wherever  I  went  he  turned  so  as  to  keep  his 
face  away ;  wherever  I  went  the  face  of  Frere  was 
the  only  one  I  could  see.  Then  in  a  sort  of  de 
spair,  almost  maddened  in  fact,  I  rushed  from  the 
room. 

"Did  you  not  leave  the  vision  behind  you?" 

"  Not  I — it  went  straight  in  front  of  me.  When 
I  reached  your  room  and  opened  the  door  it  came 
in  before  me.  I  know  now  what  I  must  do.  I 
have  been  always  standing  more  or  less  to  the  right 


188  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

of  the  picture.  I  must  get  to  the  left.  I  am  going 
to  follow  it  on  to  the  Plain — I  am  going  to  trace  it 
to  the  exact  spot  where  that  murder  was  committed. 
Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"Yes,  only  first  you  must  return  to  your  room, 
and  get  into  the  rest  of  your  clothes.  At  present 
you  are  without  a  coat." 

"Am  I?  And  yet  I  burn  with  heat.  Well,  I'll 
do  what  you  want.  I  will  do  anything  which  gives 
me  a  chance  of  seeing  that  man's  face." 

A  few  moments  later  Rurnsey  and  his  patient 
found  themselves  in  the  white  moonlight  of  the 
outer  world.  Awdrey  was  now  quite  silent,  but 
Bumsey  noticed  that  his  footsteps  faltered  once  or 
twice,  and  that  he  often  paused  as  if  to  get  his 
breath.  He  appeared  to  be  like  a  man  in  a  frantic 
hurry ;  he  gazed  straight  before  him,  as  if  he  were 
looking  intently  at  one  fixed  object. 

"It  goes  before  me,  and  guides  me  to  the  spot," 
he  said  at  last,  in  a  choking  voice.  He  panted 
more  violently  than  ever.  Heavy  sighs  came  from 
him — these  seemed  to  be  wrung  from  his  very  heart. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  men  got  upon  the  bor 
ders  of  the  Plain.  Awdrey  then  turned  abruptly 
to  his  left;  each  moment  he- walked  faster  and 
faster;  the  doctor  had  now  almost  to  run  to  keep 
up  with  him.  At  last  they  reached  the  rise  of 
ground.  A  great  clump  of  alder-trees  stood  to  the 
left;  at  the  right,  a  little  way  off,  was  a  dense  belt 
of  undergrowth.  On  the  rising  ground  itself  was 
short  grass  and  no  other  vegetation.  A  little  way 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  189 

off,  nearly  one  hundred  feet  lower  down,  was  a 
pond.  The  light  of  the  moon  was  fully  reflected 
here ;  across  the  smooth  surface  of  the  pond  was  a 
clear  path  as  if  of  silver.  When  they  reached  the 
brow  of  this  slight  elevation,  Awdrey  stood  still. 

"  There — it  was  done  there, "  he  said,  pointing 
with  his  finger.  "  See,  the  picture  does  not  move 
any  more,  but  settles  down  upon  the  ground.  Now 
we  shall  see  the  whole  thing.  Good  God,  Rumsey, 
fancy  looking  at  a  murder  which  was  committed 
five  years  ago !  It  is  going  on  there  now  all  over 
again.  There  stand  the  two  men  life-size.  Can't 
we  stop  them?  Can  we  do  nothing?" 

"No,  it  is  only  a  vision,"  said  the  doctor;  "but 
tell  me  exactly  what  you  see." 

"  It  is  too  marvellous, "  said  Awdrey.  "  The  men 
move,  and  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  blows.  It  is  ex 
traordinary  how  that  fellow  keeps  his  back  to  me. 
I  can't  see  his  face  if  I  stand  here.  Come,  let  us 
go  downhill — if  we  get  near  the  pond  we  can  look 
up,  and  I  shall  get  a  view  of  him  in  another  posi 
tion." 

"  Come,"  said  Rumsey.  He  took  Awdrey's  arm, 
and  they  went  down  the  slope  of  ground  until  they 
almost  reached  the  borders  of  the  pond. 

"  Now  is  it  any  better?"  asked  the  doctor.  "  Can 
you  see  the  man's  face  now?" 

"  No,  he  has  turned ;  he  still  keeps  his  back  to 
me,  the  scoundrel.  But  oh,  for  God's  sake  see — 
he  fights  harder  than  ever.  Ha !  He  has  thrown 
Horace  Frere  to  the  ground.  Now  Frere  is  up — 


190  Dfi.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

what  a  strong  chap  he  is !  Now  the  other  man  is 
down.  No,  he  has  risen  again.  Now  they  both 
stand  and  fight,  and — Dr.  Rumsey,  did  you  see 
that?  The  man  with  his  back  to  us  uses  his  stick, 
straight  in  front  of  him  like  a  bayonet,  and — oh, 
my  God!" 

Awdrey  covered  his  face  with  his  shaking  hands. 
In  a  moment  he  looked  up  again. 

a  Can't  you  see  for  yourself?"  he  cried.  "  Frere 
is  on  his  back — in  my  opinion  he  is  dead.  What 
has  happened?" 

Awdrey  swayed  from  side  to  side.  His  excite 
ment  was  so  intense  that  he  would  have  fallen  ii 
Dr.  Kumsey  had  not  caught  him.  The  night  was 
a  chilly  one,  but  the  terrified  and  stricken  man  was 
bathed  in  perspiration. 

"Come,  Awdrey,  you  have  told  me  everything, 
and  it  is  fully  time  to  return  home,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"I  vow  I  won't  go  back  until  I  see  that  man's 
face,  Dr.  Rumsey.  What  name  did  they  give  him 
at  the  trial?  Frank — Frank  Everett — was  he  the 
man  convicted  of  the  murder?" 

"  Yes,  of  course,  you  must  remember  that — he  is 
serving  his  time  now  in  Portland." 

Awdrey  faced  round  suddenly,  and  looked  into 
the  doctor's  eyes. 

"It  is  all  a  mistake  then,"  he  said,  in  a  queer 
sort  of  whisper.  "I  swear  that  before  God.  I 
saw  Everett  once — he  was  a  thickly  made  man — 
that  fellow  is  slighter,  taller,  younger.  He  carrie* 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  191 

my  stick  and  wears  my  clothes.  Why  in  the  name 
of  Heaven  can't  I  see  his  face?  What  are  you  say 
ing,  doctor?" 

*  Only  that  I  must  take  you  home,  my  good  fel 
low.  You  are  my  patient,  and  I  cannot  permit  this 
excitement  any  longer." 

"  But  the  murder  is  still  going  on.  Can't  you 
see  the  whole  thing  for  yourself?  That  fellow  with 
his  back  to  us  is  the  murderer.  He  uses  his  stick 
as  a  bayonet.  What  did  I  once  hear  about  that? 
Oh  that  I  could  remember!  There  is  a  cloud 
before  my  mind — oh,  God  in  Heaven,  that  I  could 
rend  it !  Do  not  speak  to  me  lor  a  moment,  doctor, 
I  am  struggling  with  a  memory." 

Awdrey  flung  himself  on  the  ground — he  pressed 
his  hands  before  his  eyes — he  looked  like  a  de 
mented  man.  Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  have  it,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  which  sounded 
hollow.  "  If  I  look  in  the  pond  I  shall  see  the  man's 
face.  His  face  must  be  reflected  in  it.  Stay  where 
you  are,  doctor,  I'll  be  back  with  you  in  a  minute. 
I  am  getting  at  it — light  is  coming — it  is  all  return 
ing  to  me.  He  uses  his  stick  as  a  bayonet,  prod 
ding  him  in  the  mouth.  Old,  old — what  am  I  say 
ing? — who  told  me  that  long  ago?  Yes  I  shall  see 
his  face  in  the  pond." 

Awdrey  ran  wildly  to  the  edge  of  the  water.  He 
paused  just  where  the  silver  light  fell  full  across  the 
dark  pond.  Rumsey  followed  him  in  hot  haste. 
He  knew  that  his  patient  was  in  the  condition  when 
he  might  leap  into  the  pond  at  any  moment. 


193  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Catching  on  to  an  alder-tree,  Awdrey  now  bent 
forward  until  he  caught  the  reflection  in  the  water 
— he  slid  down  on  his  knees  to  examine  it  more 
carefully. 

u  Take  care,  Awdrey,  you'll  slip  in  if  you  are  not 
careful,"  cried  Rumsey. 

Awdrey  was  silent  for  a  moment — his  own  re 
flection  greeted  him — he  looked  straight  down  at 
his  own  face  and  figure.  Suddenly  he  rose  to  his 
feet:  a  long  shiver  ran  through  his  frame.  H« 
went  up  to  Eumsey  with  a  queer  unsteady  laugh. 

"I  have  seen  the  man's  face,"  he  said. 

"It  was  your  own  lace,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I  saw  it  reflected  distinctly  in  the  water. " 

"I  am  satisfied,"  said  Awdrey,  in  a  changed  and 
yet  steady  voice.  "We  can  go  home  now." 

"  Well,  have  you  really  seen  what  you  wanted  to 
see?  Who  was  the  murderer?" 

*  Frank  Everett,  who  is  serving  his  time  in  Port 
land  prison.  Dr.  Eumsey,  I  believe  I  have  been 
the  victim  of  the  most  horrible  form  of  nightmare 
which  ever  visited  living  man.  Anyhow  it  has  van 
ished — the  vision  has  completely  disappeared." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Awdrey." 

"I  do  not  see  it  any  longer — I  know  what  I 
wanted  to  know.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  Court" 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

*  WELL,  Het,  what  do  you  say  to  a  bit  o*  ne\fB 
that'll  wake  you  up?"  said  Farmer  Vincent  one 
fine  morning  in  the  month  of  May  to  his  young 
wife. 

Hetty  was  in  her  dairy  with  her  sleeves  turned 
up  busily  skimming  cream.  She  turned  as  her 
husband  spoke  and  looked  up  into  his  face.  He 
was  a  roughly  built  man  on  a  huge  scale.  He 
chucked  her  playfully  under  the  chin. 

"There  are  to  be  all  kinds  of  doings,"  he  said. 
"  I've  just  been  down  to  the  village  and  the  whole 
place  is  agog.  What  do  you  say  to  an  election, 
and  who  do  you  think  is  to  be  put  up  for  the  vacant 
seat?" 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  elections,  George,** 
said  Hetty,  turning  again  to  her  cream.  "  If  that's 
all  it  won't  interest  me." 

"Ay,  but  'tain't  all — there's  more  behind  it." 

"  Well,  do  speak  out  and  tell  the  news.  I'm  go 
ing  down  to  see  aunt  presently." 

"  I  wonder  how  many  days  you  let  pass  without 
being  off  to  see  that  aunt  of  yours,"  said  the  farmer, 
frowning  perceptibly.  "Well,  then,  the  news  is 
this.  Squire  and  Mrs.  Awdrey  and  a  lot  of  com- 


194  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

pany  with  them  came  back  to  the  Court  this  even 
ing.  Squire  and  Madam  have  been  in  foreign  parts 
all  the  winter,  and  they  say  that  Squire's  as  well 
as  ever  a  man  was,  and  he  and  madam  mean  to  live 
at  the  Court  in  future.  Why,  you  have  turned 
white,  lass !  What  a  lot  you  think  of  those  grand 
folks!" 

"No,  I  don't,  George,  not  more  than  anybody 
ought.  Of  course  I'm  fond  of  Squire,  seeing  I 
know  him  since  he  was  a  little  kid — and  we  was 
always  great,  me  and  mine,  for  holding  on  to  the 
Family." 

"I've  nothing  to  say  agin'  the  Fam'ly,"  said 
farmer  Vincent,  "and  for  my  part,"  he  continued, 
"I'm  glad  Squire  is  coming  to  live  here.  I 
don't  hold  with  absentee  landlords,  that  1  don't. 
There  are  many  things  I'll  get  him  to  do  for  me  on 
the  farm.  I  can't  move  Johnson,  the  bailiff,  one 
bit,  but  when  Squire's  to  home  'twill  be  another 
matter.  Then  he's  going  to  stand  for  Grandcourt. 
He's  quite  safe  to  be  returned.  So,  Het,  what  with 
an  election  and  the  Fam'ly  back  again  at  the  Court, 
there'll  be  gay  doings  this  summer,  or  I'm  much 
mistook." 

"  To  be  sure  there  will, "  said  Hetty.  She  pulled 
a  handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket  as  she  spoke  and 
wiped  some  moisture  from  her  brow. 

"You  don't  look  too  well,  my  girl.  Now  don't 
you  go  and  overdo  things  this  morning — the 
weather  is  powerful  hot  for  the  time  o*  year,  and 
you  never  can  stand  heat  I  thought  it  'ud  cheer 


DR.  RDMSEY'S  PATIENT.  195 

you  up  to  tell  you  about  Squire,  for  any  one  can 
see  with  half  an  eye  that  you  are  as  proud  of  him 
and  the  Fam'ly  as  woman  can  be." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  your  news,  George,"  re 
plied  Hetty.  "Now  if  you  won't  keep  me  any 
longer  I'll  make  you  some  plum  duff  for  dinner." 

"That's  a  good  girl — you  know  my  weakness." 

The  man  went  up  to  her  where  she  stood,  and 
put  one  of  his  great  arms  round  her  neck. 

"Look  at  me,  Hetty,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  it,  George?"  She  raised  her  full,  dark 
eyes. 

He  gazed  down  into  their  depths,  anxiously. 

"Are  you  a  bit  better,  lass?"  he  asked,  a  tender 
intonation  in  his  gruff  voice.  "Pain  in  the  side 
any  less  bad?" 

"Yes,  George,  I  feel  much  better." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  that, "  he  said  slowly.  *  Now 
you  look  well  at  me.  Don't  you  take  your  eyes  off 
me  while  I'm  a-speaking.  I've  been  counting  the 
days.  I  mark  'em  down  on  the  back  of  the  fowl- 
house  door  with  a  bit  of  chalk ;  and  it's  forty  days 
and  more  since  you  gave  me  the  least  little  peck  of 
a  kiss,  even.  Do  you  think  you  could  give  me  one 
now?" 

She  raised  her  lips,  slowly.  He  could  not  but 
perceive  her  unwillingness,  and  a  wave  of  crimson 
swept  up  over  his  face. 

"I  don't  want  that  sort,"  he  said,  flinging  his 
arm  away  and  moving  a  step  or  two  back  from  her. 
"  There,  I  ain't  angry;  I  ain't  no  call  to  be  angry j 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

you  were  honest  with  me  afore  we  wed.  You  said 
plain  as  girl  could  speak,  'I  ain't  got  the  least  bit 
of  love  for  you,  George,'  and  I  took  you  at  your 
word;  but  sometimes,  Het,  it  seems  as  if  it  'ud 
half  kill  me,  for  I  love  you  better  every  day  and 
every  hour." 

"  I  know  you're  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed, " 
said  Hetty ;  "  and  I  like  you  even  though  I  don't 
love  you.  I'll  try  hard  to  be  a  good  wife  to  you, 
George,  I  will  truly." 

u  You're  main  pleased  about  Squire,  I  take  it?" 

al  am  main  pleased." 

"  'Twere  a  pity  the  little  chap  were  took  so  sud 
den-like." 

"I  s'pose  so,"  said  Hetty. 

"  You  are  a  queer  girl,  Hetty.  I  never  seed  a 
woman  less  fond  o'  children  than  you." 

"Well,  I  ain't  got  any  of  my  own,  you  under 
stand,"  said  Hetty. 

"I  understand."  The  farmer  uttered  a  huge 
laugh.  "I  guess  I  do,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to  God 
you  had  a  child,  Hetty ;  maybe  you'd  love  it,  and 
love  its  father  for  its  sake." 

With  a  heavy  sigh  the  man  turned  and  left  the 
dairy. 

The  moment  she  found  herself  alone,  Hetty  flew 
to  the  door  and  locked  it.  Then  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  spotless  room  she  pressed  her  two 
hands  wildly  to  her  brow. 

"He's  coming  back,"  she  said  aloud;  "back  to 
live  here;  he'll  be  within  a  mile  of  me  to-night. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  197 

Any  day  or  any  hour  I  may  see  him.  He's  coming 
back  to  live.  What  do  folks  mean  by  saying  he  is 
well?  If  he  is  well,  does  he  remember?  And  if  he 
remembers — oh,  my  God,  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  think 
much  of  that  any  longer  I  Squire  back  again  at  the 
Court  and  me  here,  and  -I  knowing  what  I  know, 
and  Aunt  Fanny  knowing  what  she  knows !  I  must 
go  and  speak  to  aunt  to-day.  To-night,  too,  so 
soon;  he'll  be  back  to-night.  My  head  is  giddy 
with  the  thought.  What  does  it  all  mean?  Is  he 
really  well,  and  does  he  remember?  Oh,  this  awful 
pain  in  my  side!  I  vowed  I'd  not  take  another 
drop  of  the  black  medicine;  but  there's  nothing 
else  keeps  me  steady." 

Glancing  furtively  behind  her,  although  there 
was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  Hetty  opened  a  cupboard 
in  the  wall.  From  a  back  recess  she  produced  a 
small  bottle ;  it  was  hah*  full  of  a  dark  liquid.  Tak 
ing  up  a  spoon  which  lay  near  she  poured  some 
drops  into  it,  and  adding  a  little  water,  drank  it 
off.  She  then  put  the  bottle  carefully  back  into  its 
place,  locked  the  cupboard,  and  slipped  the  key 
into  her  pocket. 

"  In  a  minute,  dreams  will  come,  and  I'll  be  much 
better, "  she  said  to  herself.  "  It  seems  as  if  I  coulcl 
bear  anything  a'most  after  I'd  taken  a  little  of  that 
black  stuff;  it's  a  sight  better  than  gin,  and  I  know 
what  I'm  doing  all  the  time.  I'll  go  and  see  aunt 
the  minute  I've  swallowed  my  dinner;  but  now  I 
must  hurry  to  make  the  plum  duff  for  George." 

She  ran  briskly  off  to  aftendl  to  her 


198  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

duties.  She  was  now  bright  and  merry ;  the  look 
of  gloom  and  depression  had  completely  left  her 
face ;  her  eyes  shone  with  a  contented  and  happy 
light.  As  she  bustled  about  her  kitchen  opening 
and  shutting  her  oven,  and  filling  up  the  different 
pots,  which  were  necessary  for  cooking  the  dinner, 
with  hot  water,  her  white  teeth  gleamed,  and  smiles 
came  and  went  over  her  face. 

"To  think  of  Aunt  Fanny's  toothache  mixture 
doing  this  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Aunt 
Fanny  'ud  put  a  bit  on  cotton  wool  and  put  it  into 
the  hole  of  her  tooth,  and  the  pain  'ud  be  gone  in  a 
jiffy ;  and  now  I  swallow  a  few  drops,  and  some 
how  it  touches  my  heart,  and  my  pain  goes. 
Aunt  Fanny  wonders  where  her  toothache  cure  is ; 
she  ain't  likely  to  hear  from  me.  Oh,  it's  qpite 
wonderful  how  contented  it  makes  me  feel !" 

Hetty  was  a  good  housewife,  and  there  was  noth 
ing  slatternly  nor  disorderly  about  her  kitchen. 

The  dinner,  smoking  hot  and  comfortable,  waa 
upon  the  table  when  Vincent  came  in  at  twelve 
o'clock  to  partake  of  it.  There  was  a  great  piece 
of  bacon  and  some  boiled  beans.  These  were  im 
mediately  followed  by  the  plum  duff.  The  farmer 
ate  heartily,  and  Hetty  piled  up  his  plate  whenever 
it  was  empty. 

"You  scarcely  take  a  pick  yourself,  little  girl," 
lie  said,  seizing  one  of  her  hands  as  she  passed  and 
squeezing  it  affectionately. 

"I  ain't  hungry,  George." 

"Excited  'bout  Squire,  I  guess." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  199 

"Well,  p'raps  I  am  a  bit;  you  don't  mind  if  I 
go  and  talk  it  all  over  with  aunt?" 

"That  I  don't;  when  you  smile  at  me  so  cheer 
ful  like  that  there's  nought  I  wouldn't  give  yer. 
Now  you  look  here,  Griffiths,  the  steward,  is  going 
to  get  up  a  sort  of  display  at  the  Court,  and  the 
villagers  are  going ;  there  is  talk  of  a  supper  after 
ward  in  the  barns,  but  that  may  or  may  not  be. 
What  do  you  say  to  you  and  me  going  into  the 
avenue  and  seeing  Squire  and  Madam  drive  in. 
What  do  you  say,  Het?" 

"Oh,  George,  I'd  like  it." 

"  You  would  not  think  of  giving  a  body  a  kiss  for 
it,  eh?" 

"Yes,  that  I  would." 

She  ran  behind  him,  flung  her  soft  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  pressed  a  kiss  against  his  cheek  just 
above  his  whiskers. 

"  That  won't  do, "  he  said.  "  I  won't  take  yer  for 
that — I  must  have  it  on  my  lips. " 

She  gave  him  a  shy  peck  something  like  a  robin. 
He  caught  her  suddenly  in  his  arms,  squeezed  her 
to  his  heart,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over  again. 

"  I  love  thee  more  than  words  can  say,"  he  cried. 
"  I  am  mad  to  get  your  love  in  return.  Will  the 
day  ever  come,  Het?" 

"  I  don't  know,  George ;  I'd  like  to  say  soto  please 
you,  but  I  can't  tell  a  lie  about  a  thing  like  that." 

"To  be  sure,  you  can't,"  he  said,  rising  as  he 
gpoke.  "You'd  soon  be  found  out." 

"I'd  like  well  to  love  you,"  she  continued,  "for 


200  D12.  RDMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

you're  good  to  me;  but  now  I  must  be  off  to  see 
Aunt  Fanny." 

Vincent  left  the  kitchen,  and  Hetty  hurried  to  her 
room  to  dress  herself  trimly.  Ten  minutes  later 
she  was  on  her  way  to  the  village. 

The  pretty  little  place  already  wore  a  festive  air. 
Bunting  had  been  hung  across  the  streets,  flags 
were  flying  gayly  from  many  upper  windows.  The 
shop-keepers  stood  at  their  doors  chatting  to  one 
another ;  several  of  them  nodded  to  Hetty  as  she 
passed  by. 

"That  you,  Hetty  Vincent?"  called  out  one 
woman.  "You've  heard  the  news,  I  guess." 

"Yes,  about  Squire  and  Madam,"  said  Hetty. 

"It  has  come  unexpected,"  said  the  woman. 
"We  didn't  know  until  this  morning  that  Squire 
was  to  be  back  to-night.  Mr.  Griffiths  got  the 
letter  by  the  first  post,  and  he's  been  nearly  off  his 
head  since;  there  ain't  a  man  in  the  village  though 
that  hasn't  turned  to  help  him  with  a  will,  and 
there  are  to  be  bonfires  and  all  the  rest.  They  say 
Squire  and  Madam  are  to  live  at  the  Court  now. 
Pity  the  poor  child  went  off  so  sudden.  He  were 
a  main  fine  little  chap ;  pity  he  ain't  there  to  return 
home  with  his  father  and  mother.  You  look  better, 
Hetty  Vincent — not  so  peaky  like.  Pain  in  the 
side  less?" 

"Sometimes  it  is,  and  sometimes  it  isn't," 
answered  Hetty ;  "  it's  much  better  to-day.  I  can't 
stay  talking  any  longer  though,  Mrs.  Martin,  for  I 
want  to  catch  Aunt  Fanny." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  201 

"  Well,  you'll  find  her  at  home,  but  as  busy  as  a 
bee,  the  whole  place  is  flocking  to  the  inn  to  learn 
the  latest  news.  We're  a-going  up  to  the  Court 
presently  to  welcome  'em  home.  You  and  your 
good  man  will  come,  too,  eh,  Hetty?" 

u  Yes,  for  sure, "  answered  Hetty.  She  continued 
her  walk  up  the  village  street. 

Mrs.  Armitage  was  cooling  herself  in  the  porch 
of  the  little  inn  when  she  saw  her  niece  approach 
ing. 

Hetty  hurried  her  steps,  and  came  panting  to 
her  side. 

"Aunt  Fanny,  is  it  true?"  she  gasped. 

"True?  Yes,  child,  it's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Armi 
tage.  "They're  coming  home.  You  come  along 
in  and  stand  in  the  shelter,  Hetty.  Seems  to  me 
you  grow  thinner  and  thinner." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  never  mind  about  my  looks  just  now; 
have  you  heard  anything  else?  How  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Armitage  looked  behind  her  and  lowered 
her  voice. 

*  They  do  say  that  Squire's  as  well  as  ever  he 
wor,"  she  remarked.  "Why,  he's  going  to  stand 
for  Grandcourt.  In  one  way  that's  as  it  should  be. 
We  always  had  Awdreys  in  the  House — we  like  to 
be  represented  by  our  own  folk." 

"Will  any  one  oppose  him?"  asked  Hetty. 

"How  am  I  to  say?  there's  nothing  known  at 
present.  He  is  to  be  nominated  to-morrow;  and 
that's  what's  bringing  'em  home  in  double  quicl? 
time," 


203  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  Court  to-night,  aunt?** 

al  thought  I'd  run  round  for  an  hour  just  to  see 
the  carriage  roll  by,  and  get  a  glimpse  of  Squire  and 
Madam,  but  I  must  hurry  back,  for  there'll  be  a  lot 
to  be  done  here." 

"Shall  I  come  and  help  you  and  uncle  to-night?" 

Mrs.  Armitage  looked  her  niece  all  over. 

"  That's  a  good  thought,"  she  said,  "  if  your  man 
will  spare  you." 

"Oh,  I  can  ask  him;  I  don't  think  he'll  refuse." 

u  Well,  you're  spry  enough  with  your  fingers  and 
legs  when  you  like.  I  can't  stay  out  here  talking 
any  more,  Het." 

Hetty  came  np  close  to  her  aunt,  and  lowered 
her  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"Aunt  Fanny,"  she  said,  "one  word  afore  you 
goes  in — Do  you  think  it  is  safe,  him  coming  back 
like  this?" 

"  Safe,"  echoed  the  elder  woman  in  a  tone  hoarse 
with  a  queer  mixture  of  crossness  and  undefined 
fear.  "  Squire's  safe  enough  ef  you  can  keep  things 
to  yourself." 

"Me?"  echoed  Hetty.  "Do  you  think  I  can't 
hold  my  tongue?" 

"  Tour  tongue  may  be  silent,  but  there  are  other 
ways  of  letting  out  a  secret.  Ef  ever  there  was  a 
tell-tale  face  yours  is  one.  You're  the  terror  of  my 
life  with  your  aches  and  your  pains,  and  your  start- 
ings,  as  if  you  saw  a  shadow  behind  yer  all  the 
time.  It's  a  good  thing  you  don't  live  in  the  vil 
lage.  As  to  Vincent,  pore  man,  he's  as  blind  as  a 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  203 

bat;  he  don't  see,  or  he  won't  see,  what's  staring 
him  in  the  face." 

"For  God's  sake,  Aunt  Fanny,  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean  this,  girl.  Yincent's  wife  carries  a 
secret,  and  she  loves  one  she  ought  not  to  love." 

"  Oh  !  Aunt  Fanny,  you  rend  my  heart  when  you 
talk  like  that." 

"  I  won't  again,"  said  Mrs.  Armitage,  " but  I  had 
to  speak  out  when  you  came  to-day.  It  was  my 
opportunity,  and  I  had  to  take  it.  Queer  stories 
will  be  spread  ef  you  ain't  very  careful.  You've 
nought  to  do  with  the  Squire,  Hetty.  Go  and 
see  him  to-night  with  the  rest  of  'em,  and  then  be 
satisfied.  You  keep  quiet  at  the  farm  now  he's  at 
the  Court;  don't  you  be  seen  a-talking  to  him  or 
a-follerin'  him  about." 

" I  won't,  I  won't." 

"Well,  I  thought  I'd  warn  yer — now  I  must  get 
back  to  my  work." 

"One  minute  first,  aunt — you  know  there  ain't 
a  soul  I  can  speak  to  but  you,  and  I'm  near  mad 
with  the  weight  of  my  secret  at  times. " 

"You  should  take  it  quiet,  girl — you  fret  o'er 
much.  I  really  must  leave  you,  Hetty;  there's 
your  uncle  calling  out  to  me." 

"One  minute — you  must  answer  my  question 
first." 

"  Well,  well — what  a  girl  you  are !  I'm  glad  you 
ain't  my  niece.  Coming,  Armitage.  Now,  Hetty, 
be  quick.  My  man's  temper  ain't  what  it  wor  and 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

I  daren't  cross  'im.  Now  what  is  it  you  want  to 
say?" 

"  It's  this  Aunt  Fanny.  Ef  Mr.  Eobert  is  quite 
well — as  well  as  ever  he  wor  in  his  life — do  you 
think  he  remembers?" 

"  Not  he.  He'll  never  remember  again.  They 
never  do." 

"But,  aunt,  they  never  get  well,  either." 

"That's  true  enough." 

"And  they  say  he's  quite  well — as  well  as  ever 
he  was  in  all  his  life. " 

*  Well,  Hetty  I  can  say  no  more.  "We'll  see  to 
night — you  and  me.  Tou  keep  alongside  of  me  in 
the  avenue,  and  when  he  passes  by  in  the  carriage 
we'll  look  at  him  straight  in  the  face  and  we'll  soon 
know.  You  noticed,  didn't  you,  how  queer  his 
eyes  got  since  that  dark  night.  It'll  be  fully  light 
when  they  drive  up  to  the  Court,  and  you  and  me 
we'll  look  at  him  straight  in  the  face  and  we'll  know 
the  worst  then." 

u  Yes,  Aunt  Fanny.     Yes,  I'll  keep  close  to  you. " 

"  Do,  girl.  Now  I  must  be  off.  You  can  sit  in 
the  porch  awhile  and  rest  yourself.  Coming,  Armi- 
tage." 

Hetty  stayed  down  at  the  inn  through  the  re 
mainder  of  the  day. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  Vincent  strode  in. 
She  was  in  the  humor  to  be  sweet  to  him,  and  he 
was  in  high  spirits  at  her  unwonted  words  and  looks 
of  affection. 

The  village  presented  a  gayer  and  gayer  spectacle 


JD£.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

as  tlie  hours  went  by.  High  good  humor  was  the 
order  of  the  day.  Squire  and  Madam  were  return 
ing.  Things  must  go  well  in  the  future. 

Griffiths  was  seen  riding  up  and  down  altering 
the  plan  of  the  decorations,  giving  orders  in  a  sten 
torian  voice.  At  last  the  time  came  when  the  vil 
lagers  were  to  assemble,  some  of  them  outside  their 
houses,  some  along  the  short  bit  of  road  which 
divided  the  village  from  the  Court, 'some  to  line 
the  avenue  up  to  the  Court  itself. 

Hetty  and  Mrs.  Armitage  managed  to  keep 
together.  George  Vincent  and  Armitage  preceded 
them  at  a  little  distance.  They  walked  solemnly 
through  the  village  street,  Armitage  pleased  but 
anxious  to  return  to  the  inn,  Vincent  thinking  of 
Hetty,  and  vaguely  wondering  by  what  subtle 
means  he  could  get  her  to  love  him,  Hetty  and 
Mrs.  Armitage  weighed  down  by  the  secret  which 
had  taken  the  sunshine  out  of  both  their  lives. 
They  made  straight  for  the  avenue,  and  presently 
stationed  themselves  just  on  the  brow  of  a  rising 
slope  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  gates  on  one 
side  and  of  the  Court  itself  on  the  other. 

Hetty's  excitable  heart  beat  faster  and  faster. 
Dreadful  as  her  secret  was,  she  was  glad,  she  re 
joiced,  at  the  fact  that  the  Squire  was  coming  home. 
She  would  soon  see  him  again.  To  look  at  him 
was  her  pleasure ;  it  was  the  breath  of  her  highest 
life;  it  represented  Paradise  to  her  ignorant  and 
unsophisticated  mind.  Her  eyes  grew  bright  as 
stars.  A  great  deal  of  her  old  loveliness  returned 


20C 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 


to  her.  Vincent,  who  with  Armitage  had  taken  up 
his  position  a  few  steps  further  down  the  avenue, 
kept  looking  back  at  her  from  time  to  time. 

"  Why,  man, "  said  the  landlord  of  the  village  inn, 
with  a  hoarse  laugh,  "you're  as  much  in  love  with 
that  wife  of  your'n  as  if  you  hadn't  been  wedded 
for  the  last  five  years." 

a  Ay,  I  am  in  love  with  her, "  said  Vincent.  "  I've 
got  to  win  her  yet,  that's  why.  Strikes  me  she 
looks  younger  and  more  spry  than  I've  seen  her 
for  many  a  year,  to-night." 

"She's  mortal  fond  of  Squire  and  Madam,"  said 
the  landlord.  "She  always  wor." 

"Maybe,"  replied  Vincent,  in  a  thoughtful  tone. 
He  looked  again  at  his  wife's  blooming  face;  a 
queer  uncomfortable  sense  of  suspicion  began 
slowly  to  stir  in  his  heart. 

The  sound  of  wheels  was  at  last  distinctly  audi' 
ble ;  bonfires  were  lit  on  the  instant ;  cheers  echoed 
up  from  the  village.  The  welcoming  wave  of  sound 
grew  nearer  and  nearer,  each  face  was  wreathed 
with  smiles.  Into  the  avenue,  with  its  background 
of  eager,  welcoming  faces,  dashed  the  spirited 
grays,  with  their  open  landau. 

Awdrey  and  his  wife  sat  side  by  side.  Other 
carriages  followed,  but  no  one  noticed  their  occu 
pants.  All  eyes  were  turned  upon  Awdrey.  He 
was  bending  forward  in  the  carriage,  his  hat  was 
off,  he  was  smiling  and  bowing ;  now  and  then  he 
uttered  a  cheerful  word  of  greeting.  Some  of  the 
men,  as  he  passed,  darted  forward  to  clasp  his  out- 


DR.   RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

stretched  hand.  No  one  who  saw  him  now  would 
have  recognized  him  for  the  miserable  man  who 
had  come  to  the  Court  a  few  months  back.  His 
youth  sat  well  upon  him;  his  athletic,  upright 
figure,  his  tanned  face,  his  bright  eyes,  all  spoke 
of  perfect  health,  of  energy  both  of  mind  and  body. 
The  Squire  had  come  home,  and  the  Squire  was 
himself  again.  The  fact  was  patent  to  all. 

Margaret,  who  was  also  smiling,  who  also  bowed 
and  nodded,  and  uttered  words  of  welcome,  was 
scarcely  glanced  at.  The  Squire  was  the  centre  of 
attraction ;  he  belonged  to  the  people,  he  was  theirs 
— their  king,  and  he  was  coming  home  again. 

"Bless  'im,  he's  as  well  as  ever  he  wor,"  shouted 
a  sturdy  farmer,  turning  round  and  smiling  at  his 
own  wife  as  he  spoke. 

"  Welcome,  Squire,  welcome  home !  Glad  to  ,3ee 
yer  so  spry,  Squire.  We're  main  pleased  to  have 
yer  back  again,  Squire,"  shouted  hundreds  of 
voices. 

Hetty  and  her  aunt,  standing  side  by  side,  were 
pushed  forward  by  the  smiling,  excited  throng. 

Awdrey's  smiles  were  arrested  on  his  lips,  for  a 
flashing  instant  Hetty's  bright  eyes  looked  full 
into  his ;  he  contracted  his  brows  in  pain,  then  once 
again  he  repeated  his  smiling  words  of  welcome. 
The  carriage  rolled  by. 

"Aunt  Fanny,  he  remembers!"  whispered  Hetty 
in  a  low  voice. 


CHAPTEE  XVHL 

A  HASTY  supper  had  been  got  up  in  some  large 
barns  at  the  back  of  the  Court.  When  the  Squire's 
carriage  disappeared  out  of  sight,  Griffiths  rode 
hastily  down  to  invite  the  villagers  to  partake  of 
the  hospitality  which  had  been  arranged  for  them. 
He  passed  Hetty,  was  attracted  by  her  blooming 
face,  and  gave  her  a  warm  invitation. 

"Come  along,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  be  said,  "we  can't 
do  without  you.  Your  husband  has  promised  to 
stay.  I'll  see  you  in  the  west  barn  in  a  few  min 
utes'  time." 

Vincent  came  up  at  this  moment  and  touched 
Hetty  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  thought  we  might  as  well  go  in  for  the  whole 
thing,",  he  said,  "and  I'm  a  bit  peckish.  You'd 
like  to  stay,  wouldn't  you,  Het?" 

"  That  I  would,"  she  replied."  "  You'll  come  too, 
aunt?"  she  continued,  glancing  at  Mrs.  Armitage. 

"No,  I  can't  be  spared,"  replied  Mrs.  Armitage; 
"me  and  Armitage  must  hurry  back  to  the  inn 
We've  been  away  too  long  as  it  is." 

"Oh,  George,  I  promised  to  help  Aunt  Fanny 
to-night,"  said  Hetty,  torn  by  her  desire  to  remain 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIEtiT. 

in  the  Squire's  vicinity  and  the  remembrance  of 
her  promise. 

"We'll  let  you  off,  Het,"  said  the  old  uncle,  lay 
ing  his  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Go  off  with 
your  good  man,  my  girl,  and  enjoy  yourself." 

Armitage  and  his  wife  hurried  down  the  avenue, 
and  Hetty  and  Yincent  followed  the  train  of  vil 
lagers  who  were  going  along  by  the  shrubbery  in 
the  direction  of  the  west  barn.  There  were  three 
great  barns  in  all,  and  supper  had  been  laid  in 
each.  The  west  barn  was  the  largest  and  the  most 
important,  and  by  the  time  the  Vincents  reached 
it  the  building  was  full  from  end  to  end.  Hetty 
and  her  husband,  with  a  crowd  of  other  people,  re 
mained  outside.  They  all  stood  laughing  and  jok 
ing  together.  The  highest  good  humor  was  prev 
alent.  The  Squire's  return — the  pleasure  it  gave 
the  villagers — his  personal  appearance,  the  look  of 
health  and  vigor  which  had  been  so  lamentably 
absent  from  him  during  the  past  years,  and  which 
now  to  the  delight  of  every  one  had  so  fully  returned 
— the  death  of  the  child — the  look  on  Margaret's 
face — were  the  only  topics  of  the  hour.  But  it  was 
the  subject  of  the  Squire  himself  to  whom  the  peo 
ple  again  and  again  returned.  They  were  all  so 
unaffectedly  glad  to  have  him  back  again.  Had  he 
ever  looked  so  well  before  ?  What  a  ring  of  strength 
there  was  in  his  voice !  And  then  that  tone  with 
which  he  spoke  to  them  all,  the  tone  of  remem^ 
brance,  this  it  was  which  went  straight  to  the  hearts 
of  the  men  and  women  who  had  known  him  from 


210  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

his  boyhood.  Yes,  the  Squire  was  back,  a  strong 
man  in  his  prime,  and  the  people  of  Grandcourt 
had  good  reason  for  rejoicing. 

"  He'll  be  as  good  a  Squire  as  his  father  before 
him,"  said  an  old  man  of  nearly  eighty  year**,  hob 
bling  up  close  to  Hetty  as  he  spoke.  "  They  did 
whisper  that  the  curse  of  his  house  had  took  'im, 
but  it  can't  be  true — there  ain't  no  curse  on  his 
face,  bless  'im.  He's  good  to  the  heart's  core,  and 
strong  too  and  well.  He'll  be  as  good  a  Squire  as 
his  father;  bless  'im,  say  I,  bless  'im." 

"Het,  you  look  as  white  as  a  sheet,"  said  Vin 
cent,  turning  at  that  moment  and  catching  his  wife's 
eye.  "  There  girl,  eat  you  must.  I'll  squeeze  right 
into  the  barn  and  you  come  in  ahind  me.  I'm  big 
enough  to  make  way  for  a  little  body  like  you." 

Vincent  squared  his  shoulders  and  strode  on  in 
front.  After  some  pushing  he  and  Hetty  found 
themselves  inside  the  barn.  The  tables  which  had 
been  laid  from  one  end  to  the  other,  were  crowded 
with  eager,  hungry  faces.  Griffiths  and  other  ser 
vants  from  the  Court  were  flying  here  and  there, 
pressing  hospitality  on  every  one.  Vincent  was 
just  preparing  to  ensconce  himself  in  a  vacant 
corner,  and  to  squeeze  room  for  Hetty  close  to  him, 
when  the  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  barn 
was  opened,  and  Awdrey,  Margaret,  and  some  visi 
tors  came  in. 

Immediately  all  the  villagers  rose  from  their 
seats,  and  an  enthusiastic  cheer  resounded  among 
the  rafters  of  the  old  barn.  Hetty  standing  on  tip- 


D&.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

toe,  and  straining  her  neck,  could  see  Awdrey  shak 
ing  hands  right  and  left.  Presently  he  would  come 
to  her,  he  would  take  her  hand  in  his.  She  could 
also  catch  a  glimpse  of  Margaret's  stately  figure, 
of  her  pale,  high-bred  face,  of  the  dark  waves  of 
her  raven  black  hair.  Once  again  she  looked  at 
the  Squire.  How  handsome  he  was,  how  manly, 
and  yet — and  yet — something  seemed  to  come  up 
in  Hetty's  throat  and  almost  to  choke  her. 

"You  ain't  well,  Het,"  said  her  husband.  He 
had  also  risen  from  his  seat,  and  pushing  out,  had 
joined  Hetty  in  the  crowd.  "  The  air  in  this  place 
is  too  close  for  you,  Hetty.  Drat  that  supper,  we'll 
get  into  the  open  air  once  again." 

" No,  we  won't,"  answered  Hetty.  "  I  must  wait 
to  speak  to  Squire,  happen  what  may." 

"  Why,  it'll  be  half  an  hour  before  he  gets  as  far 
as  here,"  said  Vincent.  "Well,"  he  added,  look 
ing  back  regretfully  at  his  plate,  which  was  piled 
with  pie  and  other  good  things ;  "  if  we  must  stay 
I'm  for  a  bit  of  supper.  There's  a  vacant  seat  at 
last ;  you  slip  in  by  me,  Het.  Ah,  that  cold  pie  is 
just  to  my  taste.  What  do  you  say  to  a  tiny 
morsel,  girl?" 

"I  could  not  eat,  George,  it  would  choke  me," 
said  Hetty,  "I'm  not  the  least  bit  hungry.  I  had 
tea  an  hour  ago  down  at  the  inn.  You  eat,  George, 
do,  George ;  do  go  down  and  have  some  supper. 
I'll  stand  her  and  wait  for  Squire  and  Madam." 

"You  are  daft  on  Squire  and  Madam,"  said  the 
man  angrily. 


DR.  KUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Hetty  did  not  answer.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  she 
heard  him.  One  fact  alone  was  filling  her  horizon 
She  felt  quite  certain  now  that  the  Squire  remem 
bered.  What  then  was  going  to  happen?  Was  he 
going  to  be  an  honorable  man?  Was  he  going  to 
use  the  memory  which  had  returned  to  him  to  re 
move  the  cruel  shame  and  punishment  from 
another?  If  so,  if  indeed  so,  Hetty  herself  would 
be  lost.  She  would  be  arrested  and  charged  with 
the  awful  crime  of  perjury.  The  horrors  of  the  law 
would  fall  upon  her;  she  would  be  imprisoned,  she 
would " 

"No  matter,"  she  whispered  stoutly  to  herself, 
"  it  is  not  of  myself  I  think  now,  it  is  of  him.  He 
also  will  be  tried.  Public  disgrace  will  cling  to  his 
name.  The  people  who  love  him  so  will  not  be 
able  to  help  him;  he  would  suffer  even,  even  to 
death :  the  death  of  the  gallows.  He  must  not  tell 
what  he  knew.  He  must  not  be  allowed  to  be 
carried  away  by  his  generous  impulses.  She, 
Hetty,  must  prevent  this.  She  had  guarded  his 
secret  for  him  during  the  long  years  when  the  cloud 
was  over  his  mind.  He  must  guard  it  now  for  him 
self.  Doubtless  he  would  when  she  had  warned 
him.  Could  she  speak  to  him  to-night?  Was  it 
possible?" 

"  Hetty,  how  you  do  stand  and  stare,"  said  George 
Vincent;  he  was  munching  his  pie  as  he  spoke. 
Hetty  had  been  pressed  up  against  the  table  where 
he  was  eating. 

"I'm  all  right,  George,"  she  said,  but  she  spoke 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  213 

•«3  if  she  had  not  heard  the  words  addressed  to 
ner. 

"If  you're  all  right,  come  and  have  a  bit  of 
supper." 

"I  don't  want  it.  I'm  not  hungry.  Do  eat 
while  you  can  and  let  me  be. " 

"I'll  let  you  be,  but  not  out  of  my  sight,"  mut 
tered  the  man.  He  helped  himself  to  some  more 
pie,  but  he  was  no  longer  hungry.  The  jealous 
fiend  which  had  always  lain  dormant  in  his  heart 
from  the  day  when  he  had  married  pretty  Hetty 
Armitage  and  discovered  that  she  had  no  love  to 
give  to  him  was  waking  up  now  into  full  strength 
and  vigor.  What  was  the  matter  with  Hetty? 
How  queer  she  looked  to-night.  She  had  always 
been  queer  after  a  certain  fashion — she  had  always 
been  different  from  other  girls,  but  until  to-night, 
Vincent,  who  had  watched  her  well,  had  never 
found  anything  special  to  lay  hold  of.  But  to-night 
things  were  different.  There  must  be  a  reason  for 
Hetty's  undue  excitement,  for  her  changing  color, 
for  her  agitation,  for  the  emotion  on  her  face.  Now 
what  was  she  doing?" 

Vincent  started  from  his  seat  to  see  his  wife  mov 
ing  slowly  up  the  room,  borne  onward  by  the  pres 
sure  of  the  crowd.  Several  of  the  villagers,  im 
patient  at  the  long  delay,  had  struggled  up  the 
barn  to  get  a  hand-shake  from  the  Squire  and  his 
wife.  Hetty  was  carried  with  the  rest  out  of  her 
husband's  sight.  Vincent  jumped  on  a  bench  in 
order  to  get  a  view.  He  saw  Hetty  moving  for- 


814  2V     RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

ward,  he  ha<J  a  good  glimpse  of  her  profile,  the 
color  on  the  theek  nearest  to  him  was  vivid  as  a 
damask  rose  Her  whole  little  figure  was  alert, 
full  of  determination,  of  a  queer  impulsive  longing 
which  the  nvin  saw  without  understanding.  Sud 
denly  he  ean  his  wife  fall  backward  against  some 
of  the  a/lvATicing  crowd;  she  clasped  her  hands 
together,  tfon  uttered  a  shrill,  piercing  cry. 

"  Take  TDK  out  of  this  for  the  love  of  God,  Squire," 
she  panteiV 

"Is  that  young  woman  Mrs.  Vincent?"  suddenly 
cried  ai>iotAier  voice.  "  Then,  if  so,  I've  something 
to  say  to  her." 

It  wa»  Mrs.  Everett  who  had  spoken.  Hetty  had 
Hot  seen  her  until  this  moment.  She  was  walking 
np  the  room  accompanied  by  Awdrey's  sisters,  Ann 
and  Dorfthy. 

"I  can  t  stay — I  won't  meet  her — take  me  away, 
take  me  tway,  into  the  air,  Squire,"  said  Hetty. 
"Oh,  I  a'tt  suffocating,"  she  continued,  "the  room 
is  rising  ^p  as  if  it  would  choke  me." 

"Open  that  door  there  to  your  right,  Griffiths," 
said  Awd rey,  in  a  tone  which  rose  above  the  tumult. 
"Come,  Mrs.  Vincent,  take  my_  arm." 

He  drtfw  Hetty's  hand  into  his,  and  led  her  out 
by  a  side  door.  The  crowd  made  way  for  them. 
In  awoiJher  instant  the  excited  girl  found  the  cool 
evening  air  blowing  on  her  hot  cheeks. 

*I  »m  sorry  you  found  the  room  too  close," 
began  Awdrey. 

u  Ob,  it  was  not  that,  sir,  not  really.    Just  wait 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIEb    . 

a  minute,  please,  Mr.  Eobert,  until  I  got  m/L  ath. 
I  did  not  know  that  she — that  she  was  coming  ^  jre." 

"Who  do  you  mean?"  asked  Awdrey. 

"Mrs.  Everett.  I  can't  bear  her.  It  was  the 
sight  of  her,  sudden-like,  that  took  the  breath  from 
me." 

Awdrey  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"You  are  better  now,"  he  said  then,  in  a  stony 
tone.  "  Is  your  husband  here?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  him." 

Hetty,  in  her  excitement,  laid  both  hands  on  the 
Squire's  arm. 

"Mr.  Kobert,  I  must  see  you,  and  alone,"  she 
panted. 

Awdrey  stepped  back  instinctively. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  touch  you,  you  don't 
want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me,  and  yet — and 
yet,  Mr.  Robert,  I  must  see  you  by  yourself. 
When  I  can  see  you  alone?" 

"I  cannot  stay  with  you  now/'  said  Awdrey,  in 
a  hurried  voice.  "  Come  up  to  the  house  to-mor 
row.  No,  though,  I  shall  have  no  time  to  attend 
to  you  to-morrow." 

"It  must  be  to-morrow,  sir.  It  is  life  or  death; 
yes,  it  is  life  or  death." 

"Well,  to-morrow  let  it  be,"  said  Awdrey,  after 
a  pause,  "  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Don't  call  at 
the  house,  come  round  to  the  office.  I'll  be  there 
and  I'll  give  you  a  few  minutes.  Now  I  see  you 
are  better,"  he  continued,  "I'll  go  back  to  the  barn 
and  fetch  Vincent." 


216  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

He  turned  abruptly.  On  the  threshold  of  the 
door  by  which  he  had  gone  out  he  met  Mrs. 
Everett. 

"  Where  is  that  young  woman?"  she  demanded. 

"  You  seem  to  have  frightened  her,"  said  Awdrey. 
*  You  had  better  not  go  to  her  now,  she  was  half- 
fainting,  but  I  think  the  fresh  air  has  put  her  right 
again." 

His  face  looked  cool  and  composed. 

"Fainting  or  not,"  said  Mrs.  Everett,  "I  must 
see  her,  for  I  have  something  to  say  to  her.  The 
fact  is,  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Mr.  Awdrey,  that 
I  accepted  your  wife's  kind  invitation  more  with 
the  hope  of  meeting  that  young  woman  than  for 
any  other  reason." 

Awdrey  raised  his  brows  as  if  in  slight  surprise. 

"I  left  Mrs.  Vincent  outside,"  he  repeated. 

"Then  pray  let  me  pass." 

"If  you  want  my  wife  I'll  take  you  to  her,"  said 
Vincent's  voice  at  that  moment. 

"Glad  to  see  you  again,  Vincent,"  said  Awdrey. 
He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  farmer,  who  stepped 
back  a  pace  as  if  he  did  not  see  it. 

"Obliged,  I'm  sure,  sir,"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"You'll  excuse  me  now,  Squire,  I  want  to  get  to 
my  wife." 

"Is  that  young  woman  really  your  wife?"  de 
manded  Mrs.  Everett,  in  an  eager  voice. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Then  I've  something  very  important  I  wish  to 
say  to  her." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  217 

"I'll  find  out  if  she's  well  enough  to  see  you, 
ma'am.  Hetty  is  not  to  say  too  strong." 

The  man  pushed  by,  elbowing  his  way  to  right 
and  left.  Mrs.  Everett  followed  him.  He  quickly 
reached  the  spot  where  Awdrey  had  left  Hetty. 
She  was  no  longer  there. 

"  Where  is  she?"  asked  Mrs.  Everett,  in  an  eager 
tone. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  ma'am.     She  is  not  here." 

"Do  you  think  she  has  gone  home?" 

"  That's  more'n  I  can  say.  May  I  ask  what  your 
business  is  with  my  wife?" 

u  Tour  wife  is  in  possession  of  a  secret  which  I 
mean  to  find  out." 

Vincent's  face  flushed  an  angry  red. 

"So  others  think  she  has  a  secret,"  he  muttered 
to  himself. 

Aloud  he  said,  "  May  I  ask  what  yer  name  is, 
ma'am?" 

"  My  name  is  Mrs.  Everett.  I  am  the  mother  of 
the  man  who  was  accused  of  murdering  Horace 
Frere  on  Salisbury  Plain  six  years  ago." 

"  Ah,"  said  Vincent,  "  it's  a  good  way  back  since 
that  'appened;  we've  most  forgot  it  now.  I'm 
main  sorry  for  yer,  o'  course,  Mrs.  Everett.  T' were 
a  black  day  for  yer  when  your  son " 

"  My  son  is  innocent,  my  good  sir,  and  it  is  my 
belief  that  your  wife  can  help  me  to  prove  it." 

"No,  you're  on  a  wrong  tack  there,"  said  Vin 
cent  slowly.  "What  can  Hetty  know?" 

"Then  you  won't  help  me?" 


218  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  I  say  nought  about  that.  The  hour  is  late,  and 
my  wife  ain't  well.  You'll  excuse  me  now,  but  I 
must  f oiler  'er." 

Vincent  walked  quickly  away.  He  strode  with 
long  strides  across  the  grass.  After  a  time  he 
stopped,  and  looked  to  right  and  left  of  him. 
lliere  was  a  rustling  sound  in  a  shrub  near  by. 
Hetty  stole  suddenly  out  of  the  deep  shadow. 

"  Take  me  home,  George,  I've  been  waiting  for 
you,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  these  are  queer  goings-on,"  said  the  man. 
"There  was  a  lady,  Mrs.  Everett,  and  she  said — 
never  mind  now  what  she  said.  Tell  me,  Het,  as 
you  would  speak  the  truth  ef  you  were  a-dying, 
what  did  yer  want  with  Squire?" 

"Nothing.  What  should  I  want  with  him?  I 
was  just  glad  to  see  him  again." 

"Why  did  you  turn  faint?" 

"It  was  the  heat  of  the  room." 

"  Come  on.     Take  my  arm.    Let's  go  out  o'  this. " 

The  farmer's  tone  was  very  fierce.  He  dragged 
Hetty's  hand  through  his  big  arm,  and  strode  away 
so  quickly  that  she  could  scarcely  keep  up  with 
him. 

"It  hurts  my  side,"  she  said,- at  last  panting. 

"You  think  nothing  hurts  but  your  side,"  said 
the  man.  "There  are  worse  aches  than  that." 

"What  do  you  mean,  George?  How  queer  and 
rough  you  speak !" 

"Maybe  I  know  more'n  you  think,  young 
woman." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  219 

u  Know  more  than  I  think,"  she  said.  "  There's 
nothing  more  to  know." 

"Ain't  there?  P'raps  I've  found  out  the  reason 
why  your  'eart's  been  closed  to  me — p'raps  I've 
got  the  key  to  that  secret." 

"  Oh,  George,  George,  you  know  I'd  love  you  ef 
I  could." 

"  P'raps  I've  got  the  key  to  that  secret,"  repeated 
the  farmer.  "  I'm  not  a  bad  feller — not  bad  to  look 
at  nor  bad  to  live  with — and  I  gived  yer  all  I  got — 
but  never,  God  above  is  witness,  never  from  the  day 
I  took  yer  to  church,  'ave  yer  kissed  me  of  your 
own  free  will.  No,  nor  ever  said  a  lovin'  word  to 
me — the  sort  of  words  that  come  so  glib  to  the  lips 
o'  other  young  wives.  You're  like  one  who  carries 
sum'mat  at  her  heart.  Maybe  I  guess  to-night." 

"  But  there's  nothing  to  guess,"  said  Hetty.  She 
was  trembling,  a  sick  fear  took  possession  of  her. 

"Ain't  there?  Why  did  you  make  an  appoint 
ment  to  meet  Squire  alone?" 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"  None  o'  your  soft  sawder,  now,  Hetty.  I  know 
what  I'm  a-talking  of.  I  crep'  out  of  barn  t'other 
way,  and  I  'eard  what  you  said." 

"You  heard,"  said  Hetty,  with  a  little  scream. 
Then  she  suppressed  it,  and  gave  a  little  hysterical 
laugh.  "You're  welcome  to  hear,"  she  continued. 
"There  was  nothing  in  it." 

"Worn't  there?  You  seemed  mighty  eager  to 
have  a  meetin'  with  'im;  much  more  set  on  it,  I 
take  it,  than  he  wor  to  have  a  meetin'  wi'  you. 


220  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Gents  o'  that  sort  don't  care  to  be  reminded  o'  the 
follies  o'  their  youth.  I  seed  a  big  frown  coming 
up  between  his  eyes  when  you  wor  so  masterful, 
and  when  you  pressed  and  pressed  to  see  "im.  Why 
did  yer  say  t'was  life  or  death?  I've  got  my  clue 
at  last,  and  look  you  'ere,  you  meet  Squire  at  your 
peril.  There,  that's  my  last  word.  You  under 
stand  me?" 


CHAPTEK  XIX. 

THE  next  day  Vincent  got  up  early.  It  was  his 
wont  to  rise  betimes.  Small  as  his  farm  was  he 
managed  it  well,  superintended  everything  that 
went  on  in  it,  and  did,  when  possible,  the  greater 
part  of  the  work  himself.  He  rose  now  from  the 
side  of  his  sleeping  wife,  looked  for  a  moment  at 
her  fair,  flower-like  face,  clenched  his  fist  at  a 
memory  which  came  over  him,  and  then  stole  softly 
out  of  the  room. 

The  morning  was  a  lovely  one,  warm  for  the  time 
of  year,  balmy  with  the  full  promise  of  spring. 
The  trees  were  clothed  in  their  tenderest  green ; 
there  was  a  faint  blue  mist  near  the  horizon  which 
would  pass  into  positive  heat  later  on. 

Vincent  strode  along  with  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  was  struggling 
under  a  heavy  weight.  In  truth  he  was ;  he  was 
unaccustomed  to  thought,  and  he  now  had  plenty 
of  that  commodity  to  worry  him.  What  was  the 
matter  with  Het?  What  was  her  secret?  Did 
Mrs.  Everett's  queer  words  mean  anything  or 
nothing?  Why  did  Het  want  to  see  the  Squire? 
Was  it  possible  that  the  Squire — ?  The  man 
dashed  out  one  of  his  great  hands  suddenly  into 
space. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Drat  it,"  he  muttered,  "ef  I  thought  it  I'd 
kiU  'im." 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  footsteps  approach 
ing  caused  him  to  raise  his  head;  he  had  drawn  up 
close  to  a  five-barred  gate.  He  saw  a  woman's 
bonnet  above  the  hedgerow — a  woman  dressed  in 
black  was  coming  in  his  direction — she  turned  the 
corner  and  he  recognized  Mrs.  Everett.  He  stared 
at  her  for  a  full  moment  without  opening  his  lips. 
He  felt  he  did  not  like  her ;  a  queer  sensation  of 
possible  danger  stirred  at  his  heart.  What  was  she 
doing  at  this  hour?  Vincent  knew  nothing  of  the 
ways  of  women  of  quality ;  but  surely  they  had  no 
right  to  be  out  at  this  hour  in  the  morning. 

The  moment  Mrs.  Everett  saw  him  she  quickened 
her  footsteps.  No  smile  played  round  her  lips, 
but  there  was  a  look  of  welcome  and  of  gratified 
longing  in  her  keen,  dark  eyes. 

"I  had  a  presentiment  that  I  should  find  you," 
she  said.  "  I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you  when 
no  one  was  by.  Here  you  are,  and  here  am  I. " 

"Mornin',  ma'am,"  said  Vincent  awkwardly. 

"  Good-morning, "  answered,  Mrs.  Everett.  "  The 
day  is  a  beautiful  one,"  she  continued;  "it  will  be 
hot  by  and  by." 

Vincent  did  not  think  it  tiecessary  to  reply  to 
this. 

"I'm  due  in  the  five-acre  field,"  he  said,  after  a 
long  pause.  "  I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  must  be 
attending  to  my  dooties." 

"If  you  wish  to  cross  that  field,"  said  Mrs. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Everett,  "  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  accom 
panying  you." 

Vincent  hesitated.  He  glanced  at  the  five-barred 
gate  as  if  he  meant  to  vault  over  it,  then  he  looked 
at  the  lady ;  she  was  standing  perfectly  motionless, 
her  arms  hanging  straight  at  her  sides ;  she  came 
a  step  or  two  nearer  to  him. 

"  Look  you  'ere,"  he  said  then,  suddenly.  "  I'm 
a  plain  body — a  man,  so  to  speak,  of  one  idee. 
There  are  the  men  yonder  waitin'  to  fall  to  with 
the  spring  turnips,  and  'ere  am  I  waitin'  to  give 
'em  orders,  and  'ere  you  are,  ma'am,  waitin'  to  say 
sum'mat.  Now  I  can't  attend  to  the  men  and  to 
you  at  the  same  time,  so  p'raps  you'll  speak  out, 
ma'am,  and  go." 

"I  quite  understand  your  position,"  said  Mrs. 
Everett.  "  I  would  much  rather  speak  out.  I  have 
come  here  to  say  something  about  your  wife." 

"Ay,"  said  Vincent,  folding  his  arms,  "it's 
mighty  queer  what  you  should  'ave  to  say  'bout 
Hetty." 

"Not  at  all,  for  I  happen  to  know  something 
about  her." 

"And  what  may  that  be?" 

"I'll  tell  you  if  you  will  give  me  time  to  speak. 
I  told  you  last  night  who  I  am — I  am  Mrs.  Everett, 
the  mother  of  a  man  who  has  been  falsely  accused 
of  murder." 

"  Falsely !"  echoed  Vincent,  an  incredulous  ex 
pression  playing  round  his  lips. 

"Yes,  falsely.  Don't  interrupt  me,  please. 
Your  wife  witnessed  that  murder." 


224  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  That's  true  enough,  and  it  blackened  her  life, 
poor  girl." 

"I'm  coming  to  that  part  in  a  minute.  Your 
wife  witnessed  the  murder.  She  was  very  young 
at  the  time.  It  was  well  known  that  the  murdered 
man  wanted  to  make  her  his  wife.  It  was  sup 
posed,  quite  falsely,  but  it  was  the  universal  sup 
position,  that  my  son  was  also  one  of  her  lovers. 
This  latter  was  not  the  case.  It  is  just  possible, 
however,  that  she  had  another  lover — she  was  a 
very  pretty  girl,  the  sort  of  girl  who  would  attract 
men  in  a  station  above  her  own." 

Vincent's  face  grew  black  as  night. 

"I  have  my  reason,"  continued  Mrs.  Everett, 
"for  supposing  it  possible  that  your  wife  had 
another  lover.  There  is,  at  least,  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  the  man  who  killed  Mr.  Frere  did  so  in 
a  fit  of  jealousy." 

"P'raps  so,"  said  Vincent.  "It  maybe  so.  I 
loved  Het  then — I  longed  to  make  her  my  wife  then. 
I'm  in  her  own  station — it's  best  for  girls  like  Het 
to  marry  in  their  own  station.  She  told  me  that 
the  man  who  was  murdered  wanted  to  make  her 
his  wife,  but  she  never  loved  him,  that  I  will  say." 

"She  may  have  loved  the  murderer." 

"The  man  who  is  suffering  penal  servitude?" 
cried  Vincent.  "Your  son,  ma'am?  Then  ef  you 
think  so  he'd  better  stay  where  he  is — he'd  best 
stay  where  'e  is." 

"I  am  not  talking  of  my  son,  but  of  the  real  mur 
derer,"  said  Mrs.  Everett  slowly. 


DJfc.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  225 

Vincent  stared  at  her.  He  thought  she  was 
slightly  off  her  head. 

"I  was  in  court  when  your  son  was  tried,"  he 
said,  at  last.  "  'Twas  a  plain  case.  He  killed  his 
man — it  was  brought  in  manslaughter,  worn't  it? 
And  he  didn't  swing  for  it.  I  don't  know  what  you  i 
mean,  ma'am,  an'  I'd  like  to  be  away  now  at  my 
work." 

u  I  have  something  more  to  say,  and  then  I'll  go. 
I  met  your  wife  about  a  year  ago.  We  met  on 
Salisbury  Plain." 

"Ay,  she's  fond  o'  the  Plain,  Hetty  is." 

"  I  told  her  then  what  I  now  tell  you.  She  fell 
on  her  knees  in  terror — she  clasped  my  dress,  and 
asked  me  how  I  had  found  out.  Then  she  recovered 
herself,  tried  to  eat  her  own  words,  and  left  me. 
Since  then  she  has  avoided  me.  It  was  the  sight 
of  me  last  night  that  made  your  wife  turn  faint. 
I  repeat  that  she  carries  a  secret.  If  that  secret 
were  known  it  might  clear  my  son.  I  want  to  find 
it  out.  If  you  will  help  me  and  if  we  succeed,  I'll 
give  you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"  'Taint  to  be  done,  ma'am,"  said  Vincent.  "  Het 
is  nervous,  and  a  bit  given  to  the  hysterics,  but  she 
knows  no  more  'bout  that  murder  than  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  knows;  and  what's  more,  I  wouldn't 
take  no  money  to  probe  at  my  wife's  heart.  Good- 
mornin',  ma'am,  I  must  be  attending  to  my  tur 
nips." 

Vincent  vaulted  the  five-barred  gate  as  he  spoke, 
and  walked  across  the  field. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

Mrs.  Everett  watched  him  until  he  was  out  of 
sight.  Then  she  turned  slowly,  and  went  back  to 
the  Court.  She  entered  the  grounds  a  little  before 
the  breakfast  hour.  Ann,  now  Mrs.  Henessey,  was 
out  in  the  avenue  gathering  daffodils,  which  grew 
in  clumps  all  along  a  great  border.  She  raised  her 
head  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Everett  approaching. 

"You  out?"  she  cried.  "I  thought  I  was  the 
only  early  bird.  Where  have  you  been?" 

Tor  a  walk,"  replied  the  widow.  "The  morn 
ing  is  a  lovely  one,  and  I  was  not  sleepy."  She  did 
not  wait  to  say  anything  more  to  Ann,  but  went 
into  the  house. 

The  breakfast-room  at  the  Court  had  French 
windows.  The  day  was  so  balmy  that,  early  as  it 
was  still  in  the  year,  these  windows  stood  open. 
As  Mrs.  Everett  stepped  across  the  threshold,  she 
was  greeted  by  Margaret. 

"  How  pale  and  tired  you  look !"  said  Mrs.  Aw- 
drey,  in  a  compassionate  voice. 

Mrs.  Everett  glanced  round  her,  she  saw  that 
there  was  no  one  else  present. 

"I  am  sick  at  heart,  Margaret,"  she  said,  fixing 
her  sad  eyes  on  her  friend's  face. 

Margaret  went  up  to  her,  put  her  slender  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and  kissed  her. 

"Why  won't  you  rest?"  she  said;  "you  never 
rest;  even  at  night  you  scarcely  sleep;  you  will 
kill  yourself  if  you  go  on  as  you  have  been  doing 
of  late,  and  then 

"  Why  do  you  stop,  Margaret?"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 


D&.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  22? 

"When  lie  comes  out  you  won't  be  there,"  said 
Margaret — tears  brimming  into  her  eyes.  "  I  often 
see  the  meeting  between  you  and  him,"  she  con 
tinued.  "When  he  comes  out;  when  it  is  all  over; 
he  won't  be  old,  as  men  go,  and  he'll  want  you. 
Try  and  think  of  the  very  worst  that  can  happen — 
his  innocence  never  being  proved;  even  at  the 
worst  he'll  want  you  sorely  when  he  is  a  free  man 
again." 

"  He  won't  have  me.  I  shall  be  dead  long,  long 
before  then;  but  I  must  prove  his  innocence.  I 
have  an  indescribable  sensation  that  I  am  near  the 
truth  while  I  am  here,  and  that  is  why  I  came. 
Margaret,  my  heart  in  on  fire — the  burning  of  that 
fire  consumes  me." 

At  this  moment  the  Squire  entered  the  room ;  he 
looked  bright,  fresh,  alert,  and  young.  He  was 
now  a  man  of  extremely  rapid  movements ;  he  came 
up  to  Mrs.  Everett  and  shook  hands  with  her. 

"You  have  your  bonnet  on,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  out  for  a  walk,"  she  replied. 

"And  she  has  come  in  dead  tired,"  said  Marga 
ret,  glancing  at  her  husband.  "Please  go  to  your 
room  now,  Mrs.  Everett,"  she  continued,  "  and  take 
off  your  things.  We  are  just  going  to  breakfast, 
and  I  shall  insist  on  your  taking  a  good  meal. " 

Mrs.  Everett  turned  toward  the  door.  When 
she  had  left  the  room  Margaret  approached  her 
husband's  side. 

"I  do  believe  she  is  right,"  she  cried  suddenly; 
"  I  believe  her  grief  will  kill  her  in  the  end." 


RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Whose  grief,  dearest?"  asked  Awdrey,  in  an 
absent-minded  manner. 

"  Whose  grief,  Kobert?  Don't  you  know?  Mrs. 
Everett's  grief.  Can't  you  see  for  yourself  how 
she  frets,  how  she  wastes  away?  Have  you  no 
eyes  for  her?  In  your  own  marvellous  resurrection 
ought  you,  ought  either  of  us,  to  forget  one  who 
suffers  so  sorely?" 

"I  never  forget,"  said  Awdrey.  He  spoke 
abruptly ;  he  had  turned  his  back  on  his  wife ;  a 
picture  which  was  hanging  slightly  awry  needed 
straightening ;  he  went  up  to  it.  Ann  came  in  at 
the  open  window. 

"What  possesses  all  you  women  to  be  out  at 
cockcrow  in  this  fashion?"  said  her  brother,  sub 
mitting  to  her  embrace  rather  than  returning  it. 

Ann  laughed  gleefully. 

"It's  close  on  nine  o'clock,"  she  replied;  "here 
are  some  daffodils  for  you,  Margaret" — she  laid  a 
great  bunch  by  Mrs.  Awdrey 's  plate.  "You  have 
quite  forgotten  your  country  manners,  Robert;  in 
the  old  days  breakfast  was  long  over  at  nine 
o'clock." 

"  Well,  let  us  come  to  table  now,"  said  th&  Squire. 

The  rest  of  the  party  trooped  in  by  degrees. 
Mrs.  Everett  was  the  last  to  appear.  Awdrey 
pulled  out  a  chair  near  himself;  she  dropped  into 
it.  He  began  to  attend  to  her  wants ;  then  entered 
into  conversation  with  her.  He  talked  well,  like 
the  man  of  keen  intelligence  and  education  he  really 
was.  As  he  spoke  the  widow  kept  watching  him 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  229' 

with  her  bright,  restless  eyes.  He  never  avoided 
her  glance.  His  own  eyes,  steady  and  calm  in  their 
expression,  met  hers  constantly.  Toward  the  end 
of  breakfast  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  seemed  to  chal 
lenge  each  other.  Mrs.  Everett's  grew  fuller  than 
ever  of  puzzled  inquiry;  Awdrey's  of  a  queer  defi 
ance.  In  the  end  she  looked  away  with  a  sigh. 
He  was  stronger  than  she  was ;  her  spirit  recognized 
this  fact ;  it  also  began  to  be  dimly  aware  of  the 
truth  that  he  was  her  enemy. 

The  Squire  rose  suddenly  from  his  seat  and 
addressed  his  wife. 

"I've  just  seen  Griffiths  pass  the  window,"  he 
said.  "I'm  going  out  now;  don't  expect  me  to 
lunch." 


CHAPTEK  XX. 

ABOUT  an  hour  after  her  husband  had  left  her, 
Hetty  Vincent  awoke.  She  rubbed  her  eyes,  sat 
up  in  bed,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection  began  to 
dress.  She  was  downstairs,  bustling  about  as  usual, 
just  as  the  eight-day  clock  struck  seven.  Hetty 
attended  to  the  household  work  itself,  but  there 
was  a  maid  to  help  her  with  the  dairy,  to  milk  the 
cows,  and  undertake  the  heavy  part  of  the  work. 
The  girl's  name  was  Susan.  Hetty  and  she  went 
into  the  dairy  as  usual  now  and  began  to  perform 
thoir  morning  duties. 

There  were  several  cows  kept  on  the  farm,  and 
the  Vincents  largely  lived  on  the  dairy  produce. 
Their  milk  and  butter  and  cream  were  famous  in 
the  district.  The  great  pails  of  foaming  milk  were 
now  being  brought  in  by  Susan  and  the  man  Dan, 
«md  the  different  pans  quickly  filled. 

The  morning's  milk  being"  set,  Hetty  began  to 
jkim  the  pans  which  were  ready  from  the  previous 
light.  As  she  did  so  she  put  the  cream  at  once 
into  the  churn,  and  Susan  prepared  to  make  the 
butter. 

"Hold  a  bit,  ma'am,"  she  said  suddenly,  "we 
never  scalded  out  this  churn  properly,  and  the  last 
butter  had  a  queer  taste,  don't  you  remember?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  331 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Hetty,  "how  provoking; 
all  that  cream  is  wasted  then." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  answered  Susan.  "If  we 
pour  it  out  at  once  it  won't  get  the  taste.  Please 
hold  that  basin  for  me,  ma'am,  and  I'll  empty  the 
cream  that  is  in  the  churn  straight  into  it." 

Hetty  did  so. 

Susan  set  the  churn  down  again  on  the  floor. 

"  If  you'll  give  me  that  stuff  in  the  bottle,  ma'am,** 
she  said,  "which  you  keep  in  the  cupboard,  I'll 
mix  some  of  it  with  boiling  water  and  wash  out  the 
churn,  and  it'll  be  as  sweet  as  a  nut  immediately." 

"The  water  is  already  boiling  in  the  copper," 
said  Hetty. 

The  girl  went  off  to  fill  a  large  jug  with  some, 
and  Hetty  unlocked  the  cupboard  from  which  she 
had  taken  the  bottle  of  laudanum  the  night  before. 
The  chemical  preparation  required  for  sweetening 
the  churn  should  have  stood  close  to  the  laudanum 
bottle.  It  was  noc  there,  and  Susan,  who  was  anx 
ious  to  begin  her  work,  fetched  a  stepladder  and 
mounting  it  began  to  search  through  the  contents 
of  the  cupboard. 

"I  can't  find  the  bottle,"  she  cried,  "but  lor! 
ma'am,  what  is  this  black  stuff?  It  looks  sum'mat 
like  treacle." 

"  No,  it  is  not;  let  it  alone,"  said  Hetty  in  alarm. 

"I  don't  want  to  touch  it,  I'm  sure,"  replied 
Susan.  "It's  got  a  good  big  'poison'  marked  on 
it,  and  I'm  awful  frightened  of  that  sort  o'  thing." 

"It's  toothache  cure,"  said  Hetty.     "Ef  you 


233  DR.  ItUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

swallowed  a  good  lot  of  it  it  'ud  kill  you,  but  it'a 
a  splendid  thing  to  put  on  cotton-wool  and  stuff 
into  your  tooth  if  it  aches  badly.  Just  you  step 
down  from  the  ladder,  and  I'll  have  a  look  for  the 
bottle  we  want,  Susan." 

The  bottle  was  nowhere  to  be  found  in  the  cup 
board  but  was  presently  discovered  in  another 
corner  of  the  dairy ;  the  morning's  work  then  went 
on  without  a  hitch. 

At  his  accustomed  hour  Yincent  came  in  to  break 
fast.  He  looked  moody  and  depressed.  As  he  ate 
he  glanced  many  times  at  Hetty,  but  did  not  vouch 
safe  a  single  word  to  her. 

She  was  in  the  mood  to  be  agreeable  to  him  and 
she  put  on  her  most  fascinating  airs  for  his  benefit. 
Once  as  she  passed  his  chair  she  laid  her  small 
hand  with  a  caressing  movement  on  his  shoulder. 
The  man  longed  indescribably  to  seize  the  little 
hand  and  press  its  owner  to  his  hungry  heart,  but 
lie  restrained  himself.  Mrs.  Everett's  words  were 
ringing  in  his  ear:  "Your  wife  holds  a  secret." 

Hetty  presently  sat  down  opposite  to  him.  The 
sunshine  was  now  streaming  full  into  the  cheerful 
farm  kitchen,  and  some  of  its  rays  fell  across  her 
face.  What  a  lovely  face  it  was;  pale,  it  is  true, 
and  somewhat  worn,  but  what  pathetic  eyes,  so 
dark  so  velvety ;  what  a  dear  rosebud  mouth,  what 
an  arch  and  yet  sad  expression  1 

"She  beats  every  other  woman  holler,"  muttered 
the  man  to  himself.  "It's  my  belief  that  ef  it 
wom't  for  that  secret  she'd  love  me.  Yes,  it  must 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  233 

be  true,  she  holds  a  secret,  and  it's  a-killing  of  her. 
She  ain't  what  she  wor  when  we  married.  I'll  get 
that  secret  out  o*  her;  but  not  for  no  thousand 
pounds,  'andy  as  it  'ud  be." 

"Hetty,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  yon, 
George?  You  look  so  moody,"  said  Hetty. 

"Well,  now,  I  may  as  well  return  the  compli 
ment,"  he  replied,  "so  do  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  answered,  with  a  pert 
toss  of  her  head.  "Maybe,  George,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  you're  bilious ;  you  ate  summat  that  dis 
agreed  wi*  you  last  night." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  replied  fiercely.  "I  swallered 
a  powerful  lot  o*  jealousy,  and  it's  bad  food  and 
hard  to  digest." 

"Jealousy?"  she  answered,  bridling,  and  her 
cheeks  growing  a  deep  rose.  **  Now  what  should 
make  you  jealous?" 

"You  make  me  jealous,  my  girl,"  he  answered. 

"I !  what  in  the  world  did  I  do?" 

"  You  talked  to  Squire — you  wor  mad  to  see  'im. 
Het,  you've  got  a  secret,  and  you  may  as  well  out 
wi'  it." 

The  imminence  of  the  danger  made  Hetty  quite 
cool  and  almost  brave.  She  uttered  a  light  laugh, 
and  bent  forward  to  help  herself  to  some  more 
butter. 

"  You  must  be  crazy  to  have  thoughts  o*  thai 
sort,  George,"  she  said.  "Ain't  I  been  your  wife 
for  five  years,  and  isn't  it  likely  that  ef  I  liad  a 


234  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

secret  you'd  have  discovered  it,  sharp  feller  as  yon 
are?  No,  I  was  pleased  to  see  Squire.  I  was 
always  fond  o'  'im ;  and  I  ain't  got  no  secret  ex 
cept  the  pain  in  my  side." 

She  turned  very  pale  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words  and  pressed  her  hand  to  the  neighborhood 
of  her  heart. 

Vincent  was  at  once  all  tenderness  and  concern. 

"I'm  a  brute  to  worry  yer,  my  little  gell,"  he 
said.  "Secret  or  no  secret,  you're  all  I  'as  got. 
It's  jest  this  way,  Het,  ef  you'd  love  me  a  bit,  I 
wouldn't  mind  ef  you  had  fifty  secrets,  but  it's  the 
feelin'  that  you  don't  love  me,  mad  as  I  be  about 
you,  that  drives  me  starkj  staring  wild  at  times." 

"  I'll  try  hard  to  love  you  ef  you  wish  it,  George," 
she  said. 

He  left  his  seat  and  came  toward  her.  The 
next  moment  he  had  folded  her  in  his  arms.  She 
shivered  under  his  embrace,  but  submitted. 

"Now  that's  better,"  he  said.  "Tryin'  means 
succeeding  'cording  to  my  way  o'  thinking  of  it. 
But  you  don't  look  a  bit  well,  Het;  you  change 
color  too  often — red  one  minute,  white  the  next — 
you  mustn't  do  no  sort  o'  workjthis  morning.  Yon 
jest  put  your  feet  up  this  minute  on  the  settle  and 
I'll  fetch  that  novel  you're  so  took  up  with.  Tou 
like  readin',  don't  yer,  lass?" 

"At  times  I  do,"  said  Hetty,  "but  I  ain't  in  the 
mood  to  read  to-day,  and  there's  a  heap  to  be  done.*J 

"You're  not  to  do  it;  Susan  will  manage." 

"George,  she  can't;  she's  got  the  dairy." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  235 

"Dan  shall  manage  the  dairy.  He's  worth  two 
Susans,  and  Susan  can  attend  to  the  housework. 
Now  you  lie  still  where  I've  put  you  and  read  your 
novel.  I'll  be  in  to  dinner  at  twelve  o'clock,  as 
usual,  and  ef  you  don't  look  more  spry  by  then  I'll 
go  and  fetch  Dr.  Martin,  that  I  will." 

"I  wouldn't  see  him  for  the  world,"  said  Hetty 
in  alarm.  "  Well,  I'll  stay  quiet  ef  you  wish  me  to. " 

The  rest  of  the  morning  passed  quickly.  Until 
her  husband  was  quite  out  of  sight  Hetty  remained 
on  the  settle  in  the  cosy  kitchen ;  then  she  went  up 
to  her  room,  and  taking  a  hat  out  of  the  cupboard 
began  to  pull  it  about  and  to  re-arrange  the  trim 
ming.  She  put  it  on  once  or  twice  to  see  if  it  be 
came  her.  It  was  a  pretty  hat,  made  of  white  straw 
with  a  broad  low  brim.  It  was  trimmed  simply 
with  a  broad  band  of  colored  ribbon.  On  Hetty's 
charming  head  it  had  a  rustic  effect,  and  suited  her 
particular  form  of  beauty. 

"It  don't  matter  what  I  wear,"  she  murmured  to 
herself.  *  'Taint  looks  I'm  a- thinking  of  now,  but 
I  may  as  well  look  my  best  when  I  go  to  him. 
Once  he  thought  me  pretty.  That  awful  evening 
down  by  the  brook  when  I  gathered  the  forget-me- 
nots — I  saw  his  thought  in  his  eyes  then — he 
thought  well  of  me  then.  Maybe  he  will  again  this 
evening.  Anyhow  I'll  wear  the  hat." 

At  dinner  time  Hetty  once  more  resumed  the  role 
of  an  invalid,  and  Yincent  was  charmed  to  find  her 
reclining  on  the  settle  and  pretending  to  read  the 
yellow-backed  novel. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"Here's  a  brace  of  young  pigeons,"  he  said;  "I 
shot  'em  an  hour  ago.  You  shall  have  'em  cooked 
up  tasty  for  supper.  You  want  fattening  and  coax 
ing  a  bit.  Ah,  dinner  ready;  just  what  I  like, 
corned  beef  and  cabbage.  I  am  hungry  and  no 
mistake." 

Susan  had  now  left  the  house  to  return  to  her 
ordinary  duties,  and  the  husband  and  wife  were 
alone.  Hetty  declared  herself  much  better ;  in  fact, 
quite  well.  She  drew  her  chair  close  to  Vincent, 
and  talked  to  him  while  he  ate. 

"Now  I  call  this  real  cosy,"  he  said.  "Ef  you 
try  a  bit  harder  you'll  soon  do  the  real  thing,  Het; 
you'll  love  me  for  myself." 

"  Seems  like  it, "  answered  Hetty.  "  George,  you 
don't  mind  my  going  down  to  see  aunt  this  after 
noon,  do  you?" 

She  brought  out  her  words  coolly,  but  Vincent's 
suspicions  were  instantly  aroused. 

"  Turn  round  and  look  at  me,"  he  said. 

She  did  so  bravely. 

"You  don't  go  outside  the  farm  to-day,  and 
that's  flat,"  he  said.  "We  won't  argufy  on  that 
poii*t  any  more;  you  stop  at  'ome  to-day.  Ef 
you're  a  good  girl  and  try  to  please  me  I'll  harness 
the  horse  to  the  gig  this  evening,  and  take  yer  for 
a  bit  of  a  drive." 

"I'd  like  that,**  answered  Hetty  submissively. 
She  bent  down  as  she  spoke  to  pick  up  a  piece  of 
bread.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  Vincent  would 
not  allow  her  to  keep  her  appointment  with  the 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  23? 

Squire.  But  that  appointment  must  be  kept;  if  in 
no  other  way,  by  guile. 

Hetty  thought  and  thought.  She  was  too  excited 
to  do  little  more  than  pick  her  food,  and  Vincent 
showered  attentions  and  affectionate  words  upon 
her.  At  last  he  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Well,  I've  'ad  a  hearty  meal,"  he  cried.  Til 
be  in  again  about  four  o'clock;  you  might  have  a 
cup  o*  tea  ready  for  me." 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Hetty;  "tea  is  bad  for  you; 
you're  up  so  early,  and  you're  dead  for  sleep,  and 
it's  sleep  you  ought  to  have.  You  come  home 
about  four,  and  I'll  give  you  a  glass  o'  stout." 

"Stout?"  said  the  farmer — he  was  particularly 
partial  to  that  beverage — "  I  didn't  know  there  was 
any  stout  in  the  house,"  he  continued. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  laughing  gayly,  "the  little 
cask  which  we  didn't  open  at  Christmas ;  it's  in  the 
pantry,  and  you  shall  have  a  foaming  glass  when 
you  come  in  at  four;  go  off  now,  George,  and  I'll 
have  it  ready  for  you." 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "why,  you're  turning  into 
a  model  wife ;  quite  anxious  about  me — at  least,  it 
seems  like  it.  Well,  I'll  turn  up  for  my  stout, 
more  particular  ef  you'll  give  me  a  kiss  along 
wi'  it." 

He  went  away,  and  Hetty  watched  him  as  he 
crossed  the  farmyard ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and 
her  heart  beat  high.  She  had  made  up  her  mind. 
She  would  drug  the  stout. 

Vincent  was  neither  a  lazy  nor  a  sleepy  man;  ha 


238  J)R.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

worked  bard  from  early  morning  until  late  at  night, 
indulging  in  no  excesses  of  any  kind,  and  preferring 
tea  as  a  rule  to  any  other  beverage ;  but  stout,  good 
stout,  such  as  Hetty  had  in  the  little  cask,  was  his 
one  weakness;  he  did  like  a  big  draught  of  that. 

"He  shall  have  a  sleep,"  said  Hetty  to  herself. 
a  It'll  do  him  a  power  of  good.  The  first  time  I 
swallered  a  few  drops  of  aunt's  toothache  cure  I 
slept  for  eight  hours  without  moving.  Lor !  how 
bad  I  felt  afore  I  went  off,  and  how  nice  and 
soothed  when  I  awoke.  Seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  be 
cross  for  ever  so  long.  George  shall  sleep  while 
I'm  away.  I'll  put  some  of  the  nice  black  stuff  in 
his  stout — the  stuff  that  gives  dreams — he'll  have 
a  long  rest,  and  I  can  go  and  return  and  he'll  never 
know  nothing  about  it." 

She  made  all  her  preparations  with  promptitude 
and  cunning.  First,  she  opened  the  cask,  and 
threw  away  the  first  glass  she  drew  from  it.  She 
then  tasted  the  beverage,  which  turned  out,  as  she 
expected  it  would,  to  be  of  excellent  quality.  Hetty 
saw  in  imagination  her  husband  draining  off  one 
or  two  glasses.  Presently  she  heard  his  step  in  the 
passage,  and  ran  quickly  to  the  pantry  where  the 
stout  was  kept,  concealing  the  little  bottle  of  lauda 
num  in  her  pocket.  She  poured  what  she  thought 
a  small  but  safe  dose  into  the  jug,  and  then  filled  it 
up  with  stout.  Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
very  bright,  when  she  appeared  in  the  kitchen  with 
the  jug  and  glass  on  a  tray.  Vincent  was  hot  and 
dead  tired. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  239 

*  Here  you  are,  little  woman,"  lie  cried.  "Why, 
if  you  ain't  a  sort  o'  ministering  angel,  Idon'tknow 
who  is.  Well,  I'm  quite  ready  for  that  ere  drink 
o'  your'n." 

Hetty  filled  his  glass  to  the  brim.  It  frothed 
slightly,  and  looked,  as  Vincent  expressed  it,  prime. 
He  raised  it  to  his  lips,  drained  it  to  the  dregs,  and 
returned  it  to  her.  She  filled  it  again. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  half -wink 
ing  at  her,  and  then  casting  a  longing  glance  at  the 
stout,  "ain't  two  glasses  o'er  much." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  she  answered.  "You're  to  go 
to  sleep,  you  know." 

"Well,  p'raps  I  can  spare  an  hour,^and  I  am  a 
bit  drowsy." 

"  You're  to  lie  right  down  on  the  settle,  and  go 
off  to  sleep.  I'll  wake  you  when  it  is  time." 

He  drank  off  another  glass. 

"You  won't  run  away  to  that  aunt  o*  your'n 
while  I'm  drowsing?"  he  said. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "I  would  not  do  a  shabby 
sort  of  trick  like  that." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  a  moment  later  had 
closed  his  eyes.  Once  or  twice  he  opened  them  to 
gaze  fondly  at  her,  but  presently  the  great,  roughly 
hewn  face  settled  down  into  repose.  Hetty  bent 
over  him,  laid  her  cheek  against  his,  and  felt  his 
forehead.  He  never  stirred.  She  then  listened  to 
his  breathing,  which  was  perfectly  quiet  and  light. 

"He's  gone  off  like  a  baby.  That's  wonderful 
stuff  in  aunt's  bottle,"  muttered  Hetty.  Finally, 


240  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

she  threw  a  shawl  of  her  own  over  him,  drew  down 
the  blind  of  the  nearest  window,  and  went  on  tiptoe 
out  of  the  kitchen. 

*  He'll  sleep  for  hours.  I  did,"  she  said  to  her 
self. 

She  put  the  little  bottle  back  into  its  place  in  the 
dairy  and  moved  softly  about  the  house.  She  was 
to  meet  the  Squire  at  six.  It  was  now  five  o'clock. 
It  would  take  her  the  best  part  of  an  hour  to  walk 
to  the  Court.  She  went  up  to  her  room,  put  on  her 
hat,  and  as  she  was  leaving  the  house,  once  again 
entered  the  kitchen.  Vincent's  face  was  pale  now 
— he  was  in  a  dead  slumber.  She  heard  his  breath 
ing,  a  little  quick  and  stertorous,  but  he  was  always 
a  heavy  breather,  and  she  thought  nothing  about 
it.  She  left  the  house  smiling  to  herself  at  the 
clever  trick  she  had  played  on  her  husband.  She 
was  going  to  meet  the  Squire  now.  Her  heart  beat 
with  rapture. 


CHAPTEE 

AWDBEY'S  cure  was  complete ;  he  had  passed  right 
through  the  doom  of  his  house,  and  got  out  on  the 
other  side.  He  was  the  first  man  of  his  race  who 
had  ever  done  that;  the  others  had  forgotten  as  he 
forgot,  and  had  pined,  and  dwindled,  and  slipped 
and  slipped  lower  and  lower  down  in  the  scale  of  life 
until  at  last  they  had  dropped  over  the  brink  into  the 
Unknown  beyond.  Awdrey 's  downward  career  had 
been  stopped  just  in  time.  His  recovery  had  been 
quite  as  marvellous  as  his  complaint.  When  he 
saw  his  own  face  reflected  in  the  pond  on  Salisbury 
Plain  the  cloud  had  risen  from  his  brain  and  he  re 
membered  what  he  had  done.  In  that  instant  his 
mental  sky  grew  clear  and  light.  He  himself  had 
murdered  Horace  Frere ;  he  had  not  done  it  inten 
tionally,  but  he  had  done  it;  another  man  was  suf 
fering  in  his  stead ;  he  himself  was  the  murderer. 
He  knew  this  absolutely,  completely,  clearly,  but 
at  first  he  felt  no  mental  pain  of  any  sort.  A  natural 
instinct  made  him  desirous  to  keep  his  knowledge 
to  himself,  but  his  conscience  sat  light  within  him, 
and  did  not  speak  at  all.  He  was  now  anxious  to 
conceal  his  emotions  from  the  doctor;  his  mind 
had  completely  recovered  its  balance,  and  he  found 


242  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

this  possible.  Bumsey  was  as  fully  astonished  at 
the  cure  as  he  had  been  at  the  disease ;  he  accoro 
panied  Awdrey  back  to  London  next  day,  and  told 
Margaret  what  a  marvellous  thing  had  occurred. 
Awdrey  remembered  all  about  his  son ;  he  was  f ul] 
of  grief  for  his  loss ;  he  was  kind  and  loving  to  his 
wife ;  he  was  no  longer  morose ;  no  longer  sullen 
and  apathetic;  in  short,  his  mental  and  physical 
parts  were  once  again  wide  awake ;  but  the  strange 
and  almost  inexplicable  thing  in  his  cure  was  that 
his  moral  part  still  completely  slumbered.  This 
fact  undoubtedly  did  much  to  establish  his  mental 
and  physical  health,  giving  him  time  to  recover  his 
lost  ground. 

Bumsey  did  not  profess  to  understand  the  case, 
but  now  that  Awdrey  had  quite  come  back  from  the 
borderland  of  insanity,  he  advised  that  ordinary 
remedies  should  immediately  be  resorted  to ;  he  told 
Margaret  that  in  a  few  months  her  husband  would 
be  as  fully  and  completely  able  to  attend  to  the  du 
ties  of  life  as  any  other  man  of  his  day  and  station. 
He  did  not  believe,  he  said,  that  the  strange  attack 
through  which  Awdrey  had  passed  was  ever  likely 
to  return  to  him !  Margaret  and  her  husband  shut 
up  their  house  in  town,  and"  went  abroad;  they 
spent  the  winter  on  the  continent,  and  day  by  day 
Awdrey 's  condition,  both  physical  and  mental, 
became  more  satisfactory.  He  slept  well,  he  ate 
well;  soon  he  began  to  devour  books  and  news 
papers;  to  absorb  himself  in  the  events  of  the  day; 
to  take  a  keen  interest  in  politics;  the  member  for 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  243 

Grandcourt  died,  and  Awdrey  put  up  for  the  con 
stituency.  He  was  obliged  to  return  suddenly  to 
England  on  this  account,  and  to  Margaret's  delight 
elected  to  come  back  at  once  to  live  at  the  Court. 
The  whole  thing  was  arranged  quickly.  Awdrey 
was  to  be  nominated  as  the  new  candidate  for 
Grandcourt;  he  was  to  have,  too,  his  rightful  posi 
tion  as  the  Squire  on  his  own  property.  Friends 
from  all  round  the  country  rejoiced  in  his  recovery, 
as  they  had  sincerely  mourned  over  his  strange  and 
inexplicable  illness.  He  was  welcomed  with  re 
joicing,  and  came  back  something  as  a  king  would 
to  take  possession  of  his  kingdom. 

On  the  night  therefore,  that  he  returned  to  the 
Court,  the  higher  part  of  his  being  began  to  stir 
uneasily  within  him.  He  had  quite  agreed  to  Mar 
garet's  desire  to  invite  Mrs.  Everett  to  meet  them 
on  their  return,  but  he  read  a  certain  expression  in 
the  widow's  sad  eyes,  and  a  certain  look  on  Hetty's 
face,  which  stirred  into  active  remorse  the  con 
science  which  had  suffered  more  severely  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  ordeal  through  which  he  had 
lived.  It  was  now  awake  within  him,  and  its  voice 
was  very  poignant  and  keen;  its  notes  were  clear, 
sharp,  and  unremitting. 

In  his  excellent  physical  and  mental  health  his 
first  impulse  was  to  defy  the  voice  of  conscience, 
and  to  live  down  the  deed  he  had  committed.  His 
first  wish  was  to  hide  its  knowledge  from  all  the 
world,  and  to  go  down  to  his  own  grave  in  the 
course  of  time  with  his  secret  unconf  essed.  He  did 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

not  believe  it  possible,  at  least  at  first,  that  the 
moral  voice  within  could  not  be  easily  silenced; 
but  even  on  the  first  night  of  his  awakening  he  was 
conscious  of  a  change  in  himself.  The  sense  of 
satisfaction,  of  complete  enjoyment  in  life  and  all 
its  surroundings  which  had  hitherto  done  so  much 
for  his  recovery,  was  now  absent;  he  was  conscious, 
intensely  conscious,  of  his  own  hypocrisy,  and  he 
began  vehemently  to  hate  and  detest  himself.  All 
the  same,  his  wish  was  to  hide  the  thing,  to  allow 
Mrs.  Everett  to  go  down  to  the  grave  with  a  broken 
heart — to  allow  Everett  to  drink  the  cup  of  suffering 
and  dishonor  to  the  dregs. 

Awdrey  slept  little  during  the  first  night  of  his 
return  home.  In  the  morning  he  arose  to  the  full 
fact  that  he  must  either  carry  a  terrible  secret  to 
his  grave,  or  must  confess  all  and  bear  the  punish 
ment  which  was  now  awarded  to  another.  His 
strong  determination  on  that  first  morning  was  to 
keep  his  secret.  He  went  downstairs,  putting  a 
full  guard  upon  himself.  Margaret  saw  nothing 
amiss  with  him — his  face  was  full  of  alertness,  keen 
ness,  interest  in  life,  interest  in  his  fellow-creatures. 
Only  Mrs.  Everett,  at  breakfast  that  morning,  with 
out  understanding  it,  read  the  defiance,  the  veileql 
meaning  in  his  eyes.  He  went  away  presently, 
and  spent  the  day  in  going  about  his  property,  see 
ing  his  constituents,  and  arranging  the  different 
steps  he  must  take  to  insure  his  return  at  the  head 
of  the  poll.  As  he  went  from  house  to  house,  how- 
ever,  the  new  knowledge  which  he  now  possessed 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  245 

of  himself  kept  following  him.  On  all  hands  he 
was  being  welcomed  and  rejoiced  over,  but  he  knew 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  was  a  hypocrite  of  the 
basest  and  lowest  type.  He  was  allowing  another 
man  to  suffer  in  his  stead.  That  was  the  cruellest 
stab  of  all ;  it  was  that  which  harassed  him,  for  it 
was  contrary  to  all  the  traditions  of  his  house  and 
name.  His  mental  health  was  now  so  perfect  that 
he  was  able  to  see  with  a  wonderfully  clear  percep 
tion  what  would  happen  to  himself  if  he  refused  to 
listen  to  the  voice  of  conscience.  In  the  past,  while 
the  cloud  was  over  his  brain,  he  had  undergone 
terrible  mental  and  physical  deterioration;  he 
would  now  undergo  moral  deterioration.  The  time 
might  come  when  conscience  would  cease  to  trouble 
him,  but  then,  as  far  as  his  soul  was  concerned,  he 
would  be  lost.  He  knew  all  this,  and  hated  him 
self  profoundly,  nevertheless  his  determination 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  to  guard  his  secret  at 
all  hazards.  The  possibility  that  the  truth  might 
out,  notwithstanding  all  his  efforts  to  conceal  it, 
had  not  occurred  to  him,  to  add  to  his  anxie 
ties. 

The  day,  a  lovely  one  in  late  spring,  had  been 
one  long  triumph.  Awdrey  was  assured  that  his 
election  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  He  tried  to 
think  of  himself  in  the  House ;  he  was  aware  of  the 
keenness  and  freshness  of  his  own  intellect;  he 
thought  it  quite  possible  that  his  name  might  be  a 
power  in  the  future  government  of  England.  He 
folly  intended  to  take  his  rightful  position,  For 


246  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

generations  men  of  his  name  and  family  had  sat  in 
the  House  and  done  good  work  there — men  of  his 
name  and  family  had  also  fought  for  their  country 
both  on  land  and  sea.  Yes,  it  was  his  bounden 
duty  now  to  live  for  the  honor  of  the  old  name ; 
to  throw  up  the  sponge  now,  to  admit  all  now 
would  be  madness — the  worst  folly  of  which  a  man 
could  be  capable.  It  was  his  duty  to  think  of  Mar 
garet,  to  think  of  his  property,  his  tenants,  all  that 
was  involved  in  his  own  life. 

Everett  and  Mrs.  Everett  would  assuredly  suffer; 
but  what  of  that  if  many  others  were  saved  from 
suffering?  Yes,  it  was  his  bounden  duty  to  live 
now  for  the  honor  of  the  old  name;  he  had  also 
his  descendants  to  think  of.  True  his  child  was 
gone,  but  other  children  would  in  all  probability 
yet  be  his — he  must  think  of  them.  Yes,  the 
future  lay  before  him ;  he  must  carry  the  burden 
of  that  awful  secret,  and  he  would  carry  it  so  close 
ly  pressed  to  his  innermost  heart  that  no  one  should 
guess  by  look,  word,  manner,  by  a  gloomy  eye,  by 
an  unsmiling  lip,  that  its  weight  was  on  him.  He 
would  be  gay,  he  would  be  brave,  he  would  banish 
grief,  he  would  try  to  banish  remorse,  he  would 
live  his  life  as  best  he  could. 

"I  must  pay  the  cost  some  day,"  he  muttered  to 
himself.  "  I  put  off  the  payment,  and  that  is  best. 
There  is  a  tribunal,  at  the  bar  of  which  I  shall 
doubtless  receive  full  sentence ;  but  that  is  all  in 
the  *uture ;  I  accept  the  penalty ;  I  will  reap  the 
wages  by  and  by.  Yes,  I'll  keep  my  secret  to  the 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  24? 

death.    The  girl,  Hetty,  knows  about  it,  but  she 
must  be  silenced." 

Awdrey  rode  quickly  home  in  the  sweet  fresh 
ness  of  the  lovely  spring  evening.  He  remembered 
that  he  was  to  meet  Hetty ;  the  meeting  would  be 
difficult  and  also  of  some  importance,  but  he  would 
be  guarded,  he  would  manage  to  silence  her,  to 
quiet  her  evident  fears.  Hetty  warf  a  guileless, 
affectionate,  and  pretty  girl;  she  had  been  wonder 
fully  true  to  him ;  he  must  be  good  to  her,  for  she 
had  suffered  for  his  sake.  It  would  be  best  to 
make  an  excuse  to  send  Hetty  and  her  husband  to 
Canada;  Vincent,  who  was  a  poor  man,  would 
doubtless  be  glad  to  emigrate  with  good  prospects. 
Tes,  they  must  go ;  it  would  be  unpleasant  meeting 
Hetty,  knowing  what  she  knew.  Mrs.  Everett  must 
also  not  again  be  his  guest ;  her  presence  irritated 
him,  he  disliked  meeting  her  eyes;  and  yet  he 
knew  that  while  she  was  in  the  house  he  dared  not 
shirk  their  glance ;  her  presence  and  the  knowledge 
that  her  pain  was  killing  her  made  the  sharp  voice 
within  him  speak  more  loudly  than  he  could  quite 
bear.  Yes,  Mrs.  Everett  must  go,  and  Hetty  must 
go,  and — what  was  this  memory  which  made  him 
draw  up  his  horse  abruptly? — his  lost  walking- 
stick.  Ridiculous  that  such  a  trifle  should  worry  a 
man  all  through  his  life ;  how  it  had  haunted  him 
all  during  the  six  years  when  the  cloud  was  over  his 
brain.  Even  now  the  memory  of  it  came  up  again 
to  torment  him.  He  had  murdered  his  man  with 
that  stick;  the  whole  thing  was  the  purest  accident, 


848  Dfl.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 


but  that  did  not  greatly  matter,  for  the  man  had 
died;  the  ferrule  of  Awdrey's  stick  had  entered  his 
brain,  causing  instant  death. 

"Afterward  I  hid  it  away  in  the  underwood," 
thought  Awdrey.  "I  wonder  where  it  is  now  — 
doubtless  still  there  —  but  some  day  that  part  of  the 
underwood  may  be  cut  down  and  the  stick  may  be 
found.  It  might  tell  tales,  I  must  find  it." 

He  jogged  his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  home 
under  the  arching  trees  of  the  long  avenue.  He 
had  a  -good  view  of  the  long,  low,  rambling  house 
there  —  how  sweet  it  looked,  how  homelike!  But 
for  this  secret  what  a  happy  man  he  would  be  to 
night.  Ah,  who  was  that  standing  at  his  office 
door?  He  started  and  hastened  his  horse's  steps. 
Hetty  Vincent  was  already  there  waiting  for 
him. 

"I  must  speak  to  her  at  once,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "I  hope  no  one  will  see  her;  it  would  never 
do  for  the  people  to  think  she  was  coming  after  me. 
This  will  be  a  disagreeable  interview  and  must  be 
got  over  quickly." 

The  Squire  rode  round  the  part  of  the  avenue 
which  led  directly  past  the  front  of  the  long  house. 
His  wife,  sisters,  and  Mrs."  Everett  were  all  seated 
near  the  large  window.  They  were  drinking  tea 
and  talking.  Margaret's  elbow  rested  upon  the 
window-ledge.  She  wore  a  silk  dress  of  the  softest 
gray.  Her  lovely  face  showed  in  full  profile.  Sud 
denly  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's  steps  and 
turned  round  to  greet  him. 


DR.  RUHSEY'S  PATIENT.  249 

"There  you  are;  we  are  waiting  for  you,**  she 
called  out. 

"  Come  in,  Robert,  and  have  a  cup, "  called  out 
Dorothy,  putting  her  head  out  of  the  window. 

Dorothy  was  his  favorite  sister.  Under  other 
circumstances  he  would  have  sprung  from  his  horse, 
given  it  to  the  charge  of  a  groom  who  stood  near, 
and  joined  his  wife  and  friends.  Now  he  called 
back  in  a  clear,  incisive  voice : 

"  I  have  to  attend  to  some  business  at  my  office, 
and  will  be  in  presently.  Here,  Davies,  take  my 
horse." 

The  man  hurried  forward  and  Awdrey  strode 
round  to  the  side  entrance  where  his  office  was. 

Hetty,  looking  flushed  and  pretty  in  her  rustic 
hat  with  a  bunch  of  cowslips  pinned  into  the  front 
of  her  jacket,  stood  waiting  for  him. 

Awdrey  took  a  key  out  of  his  pocket.  The  office 
had  no  direct  communication  with  the  house,  but 
was  always  entered  from  outside.  He  unlocked 
the  door  and  motioned  Hetty  to  precede  him  into 
the  room.  She  did  so,  he  entered  after  her,  locked 
the  door,  and  put  the  key  into  his  pocket.  The 
next  thing  he  did  was  to  look  at  the  windows. 
There  were  three  large  windows  to  the  office,  and 
they  all  faced  on  to  a  grass  lawn  outside.  Any  one 
passing  by  could  have  distinctly  seen  the  occupants 
of  the  room. 

Awdrey  went  and  deliberately  pulled  down  one 
of  the  blinds. 

"Come  over  here,"  he  said  to  Hetty.    "Take 


250  DR    fiUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

this  chair."  He  took  another  himself  at  a  little 
distance  from  her.  So  seated  his  face  was  in 
shadow,  but  the  full  light  of  the  westering  sun  fell 
across  hers.  It  lit  up  her  bright  eyes  until  they 
shone  like  jewels,  and  gave  a  bronze  hue  to  her 
dark  hair.  The  flush  on  her  cheeks  was  of  the 
damask  of  the  rose;  her  brow  and  the  rest  of  her 
face  was  milky  white. 

Long  ago,  as  a  young  man,  Awdrey  had  ad 
mired  Hetty's  real  beauty,  but  no  thought  other 
than  that  of  simple  admiration  had  entered  his 
brain.  His  was  not  the  nature  to  be  really  at 
tracted  by  a  woman  below  himself  in  station. 
Now,  however,  his  pulse  beat  a  little  faster  than 
its  wont  as  he  glanced  at  her.  He  remembered  with 
a  swift,  poignant  sense  of  regret  all  that  she  had 
done  for  him  and  suffered  for  him.  He  could  see 
traces  of  the  trouble  through  which  she  had  lived 
in  her  face ;  that  trouble  and  her  present  anxiety 
gave  a  piquancy  to  her  beauty  which  differentiated 
it  widely  from  the  ordinary  beauty  of  the  rustic 
village  girl.  As  he  watched  her  he  forgot  for  a 
moment  what  she  had  come  to  speak  to  him  about. 
Then  he  remembered  it,  .and  he  drew  himself 
together,  but  a  pang  shot  through  his  heart.  He 
thought  of  the  small  deceit  which  he  was  guilty  of 
in  drawing  down  the  blind  and  placing  himself  and 
nis  auditor  where  no  one  from  the  outside  could 
observe  them. 

"You  want  to  speak  to  me,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"What  about?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  251 

"You  must  know,  Mr.  Robert,"  began  Hetty. 
Her  coral  lips  trembled,  she  looked  like  some  one 
who  would  break  down  into  hysterical  weeping  at 
any  moment. 

"This  must  be  put  a  stop  to,"  Awdrey  bestowed 
another  swift  glance  upon  her,  and  took  her  meas 
ure.  "I  cannot  pretend  ignorance,"  he  said,  "but 
please  try  not  to  lose  your  self-control." 

Hetty  gulped  down  a  great  sob;  the  tears  in  her 
eyes  were  not  allowed  to  fall. 

"Then  you  remember?"  she  said. 

Awdrey  nodded. 

"  You  remember  everything,  Mr.  Robert?" 

Awdrey  nodded  again. 

"But  you  forgot  at  the  time,  sir." 

Awdrey  stood  up ;  he  put  his  hands  behind  him. 

"I  forgot  absolutely,"  he  said.  "I  suffered 
from  the  doom  of  my  house.  A  cloud  fell  on  me, 
and  I  knew  no  more  than  a  babe  unborn." 

u  I  guessed  that,  sir ;  I  was  certain  of  it.  That 
was  why  I  took  your  part." 

Awdrey  waited  until  she  was  silent.  Then  he 
continued  in  a  monotonous,  strained  tone. 

u  I  have  found  my  memory  again.  Four  or  five 
months  ago  at  the  beginning  of  this  winter  I  came 
here.  I  visited  the  spot  where  the  murder  was 
committed,  and  owing  to  a  chain  of  remarkable 
circumstances,  which  I  need  not  repeat  to  you,  the 
memory  of  my  deed  came  back  to  me." 

*  You  killed  him,  sir,  because  he  provoked  you," 
said  Hetty. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  You  were  present  and  you  saw  everything?** 

a  I  was,  sir,  I  saw  everything.  You  killed  him 
because  he  provoked  you." 

"I  killed  him  through  an  accident.  I  did  so  in 
self-defence." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Hetty  also  stood  up.    She  sighed  deeply. 

"The  knowledge  of  it  has  nearly  killed  me," 
she  said  at  last,  sinking  back  again  into  her  seat. 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  that,"  said  the  Squire. 
**  You  did  what  you  did  out  of  consideration  for 
me,  and  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  deeply  indebted 
to  you" — he  paused  and  looked  fixedly  at  her — 
"all  the  same,"  he  continued,  "I  fully  believe  it 
would  have  been  much  better  had  you  not  sworn 
falsely  in  court — had  you  not  given  wrong  evi 
dence." 

"Did  you  think  I'd  let  you  swing  for  it?"  said 
the  girl  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I  should  probably  not  have  swung  for  it,  as  you 
express  it.  You  could  have  proved  that  the  as 
sault  was  unprovoked,  and  that  I  did  what  I  did 
in  self-defence.  I  wish  you  had  not  concealed  the 
truth  at  the  time." 

"Sir,  is  that  all  the  thanks  you- give  me?  You 
do  not  know  what  this  has  been  to  me.  Aunt 
Fanny  and  I " 

"Does  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Armitage,  know  the 
truth?" 

"I  had  to  tell  Aunt  Fanny  or  I'd  have  gone  mad, 
Sir.  She  and  me,  we  swore  on  the  Bible  that  we 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  253 

would  never  tell  mortal  man  or  woman  what  I 
saw  done.  You're  as  safe  with  Aunt  Fanny  and 
me,  Mr.  Robert,  as  if  no  one  in  all  the  world  knew. 
You  were  one  of  the  Family— that  was  enough  for 

aunt — and  you  was  to  me "  she  paused,  colored, 

and  looked  down.  Then  she  continued  abruptly, 
"  Mr.  Everett  was  nothing,  nothing  to  me,  nothing 
to  aunt.  He  was  a  stranger,  not  one  of  our  own 
people.  Aunt  Fanny  kept  me  up  to  it,  and  I  didn't 
make  one  single  mistake  in  court,  and  not  a  soul  in 
all  the  world  guesses." 

"One  person  suspects,"  said  Awdrey. 

B  You  mean  Mrs.  Everett,  sir.  Yes,  Mrs.  Everett 
is  a  dreadful  woman.  She  frightens  me.  She 
seems  to  read  right  through  my  heart." 

The  Squire  did  not  reply.  He  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  in  the  part  of  the  room  which  was  lying 
in  shadow.  Hetty  watched  him  with  eyes  which 
seemed  to  devour  him — his  upright  figure  was 
slightly  bent,  his  bowed  head  had  lost  its  look  of 
youth  and  alertness.  He  found  that  conscience 
could  be  troublesome  to  the  point  of  agony.  If  it 
spoke  like  this  often  and  for  long  could  he  endure 
the  frightful  strain?  There  was  a  way  in  which 
he  could  silence  it.  There  was  a  path  of  thorns 
which  his  feet  might  tread.  Could  they  t«ke  it? 
That  path  would  lead  to  the  complete  martyrdom, 
the  absolute  ruin  of  his  own  life.  But  life,  after 
all,  was  short,  and  there  was  a  beyond.  Margaret 
— what  would  Margaret  feel?  How  would  she  bear 
the  awful  shock.  He  knew  then,  a  flash  of  thought 


254  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

convinced  him,  that  he  must  never  tell  Margaret 
the  truth  if  he  wished  to  keep  this  ghastly  thing  to 
himself,  for  Margaret  would  rather  go  through  the 
martyrdom  which  it  all  meant,  and  set  his  con 
science  and  her  own  free. 

Awdrey  looked  again  at  Hetty.  She  was  ghastly 
pale,  her  eyes  were  almost  wild  with  fear — she 
seemed  to  be  reading  some  of  his  thoughts.  All 
of  a  sudden  her  outward  calm  gave  way,  she  left 
her  seat  and  fell  on  her  knees — her  voice  rose  in 
sobs. 

al  know  what  you're  thinking  of,**  she  cried. 
"  You  think  you'll  tell — you  think  you'll  save  him 
and  save  her,  but  for  God's  sake " 

"Do  not  say  that,"  interrupted  Awdrey. 

"  Then  for  the  devil's  sake — for  any  sake,  for  my 
sake,  for  your  own,  for  Mrs.  Awdrey's,  don't  do 
it,  Squire,  don't  do  it." 

"Don't  do "    began  Awdrey.      "What  did 

you  think  I  was  going  to  do?" 

"  Oh,  you  frightened  me  so  awfully  when  you 
looked  like  that — I  thought  you  were  making  up 
your  mind.  Squire,  don't  tell  what  you  know— * 
don't  tell  what  I've  done.  I'll  be  locked  up  and 
you'll  be  locked  up,  and  Mrs.  Awdrey's  heart  will 
be  broke,  and  we'll  all  be  disgraced  forever,  and, 
Squire,  maybe  they'll  hang  you.  Think  of  one  of 
the  family  coming  to  that.  Oh,  sir,  you've  no 
right  to  tell  now.  You'll  have  to  think  of  me  now, 
if  you'll  think  of  nothing  else.  I've  kept  your 
secret  for  close  on  six  years,  and  if  they  knew  what 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  255 

I  had  done  they  would  lock  me  up,  and  I  couldn't 
stand  it.  You  daren't  confess  now — for  my  sake, 
sir." 

" Get  up,  Mrs.  Vincent,"  said  Awdrey.  "I  can't 
talk  over  matters  with  you  while  you  kneel  to  me. 
You've  done  a  good  deal  for  me,  and  I'm  bound  to 
consider  your  position.  Now,  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  something  which  perhaps  you  will  scarcely 
understand.  I  remembered  the  act  of  which  I  was 
guilty  several  months  ago,  but  until  last  night  my 
conscience  did  not  trouble  me  about  it.  It  is  now 
speaking  to  me,  and  speaking  loudly.  It  is  im 
possible  for  me  to  tell  you  at  present  whether  I 
shall  have  strength  of  mind  to  follow  it  and  do  the 
right — yes,  the  right,  the  only  right  thing  to  do, 
or  to  reject  its  counsels  and  lead  a  life  of  deceit 
and  hypocrisy.  Both  paths  will  be  difficult  to 
follow,  but  one  leads  to  life,  the  highest  life,  and 
the  other  to  death,  the  lowest  death.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  I  may  choose  the  lowest  course.  If 
I  do,  you,  Hetty  Vincent,  will  know  the  truth 
about  me.  To  the  outside  world  I  shall  appear  to 
be  a  good  man,  for  whatever  my  sufferings,  I  shall 
endeavor  to  help  my  people,  and  to  set  them  an 
outward  example  of  morality.  I  shall  apparently 
live  for  them,  and  will  think  no  trouble  too  great 
to  promote  their  best  interests.  Only  you,  Hetty, 
will  know  me  for  what  I  am — a  liar — a  man  who 
has  committed  murder,  and  then  concealed  his 
crime — a  hypocrite.  You  will  know  that  much  as 
I  am  thought  of  in  the  county  here  among 


256  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

own  people,  I  am  allowing  an  innocent  man  to  wear 
out  his  life  in  penal  servitude  because  I  have  not 
the  courage  to  confess  my  deed.  You  will  also 
know  that  I  am  breaking  the  heart  of  this  man's 
mother." 

"The  knowledge  won't  matter  to  me,  Squire. 
I'd  rather  you  were  happy  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  miserable.  I'd  far,  far  rather." 

"Do  you  think  that  I  shall  be  happy?" 

a I  don't  know,"  cried  Hetty.  "Perhaps  you'll 
forget  after  a  bit,  and  that  voice  inside  you  won't 
speak  so  loud.  It  used  to  trouble  me  once,  but 
now — now  it  has  grown  dull." 

"It  will  never  cease  to  speak.  I  know  myself 
too  well  to  have  any  doubt  on  that  point,  but  all 
the  same  I  may  take  the  downward  course.  I 
can't  say.  Conscience  has  only  just  begun  to 
trouble  me.  I  may  obey  its  dictates,  or  I  may 
deliberately  lead  the  life  of  a  hypocrite.  If  I 
choose  the  latter,  can  you  stand  the  test?" 

"I  have  stood  it  for  five  years." 

B  But  I  have  not  been  at  home — the  Court  has 
been  shut  np — an  absentee  landlord  is  not  always 
to  the  front  in  his  people's  thoughts.  In  the 
future,  things  will  be  different.  Look  at  me  for  a 
moment,  Hetty  Vincent.  You  are  not  well — your 
cheeks  are  hollow  and  your  eyes  are  too  bright. 
Mrs.  Everett  is  persuaded  that  you  carry  a  secret. 
If  she  thinks  so,  others  may  think  the  same.  Your 
ftunt  also  knows." 

is  different  from  aw,"  swd  Hetty, 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  257 

didn't  see  it  done.  It  don't  wear  her  like  It  wean 
me.  But  I  think,  sir,  now  that  you  have  come 
back,  and  I  am  quite  certain  that  I  know  your  true 
mind,  and  when  I  know,  too,  that  you  are  carrying 
the  burden  as  well  as  me,  and  that  we  two," — sh« 
paused,  her  voice  broke — "I  think,  sir,"  she  added, 
"that  it  won't  wear  me  so  much  in  the  future." 

"  You  must  on  no  account  be  tried.  If  I  resolve 
to  keep  the  secret  of  my  guilt  from  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  you  must  leave  the  country." 

"  Me  leave  the  country !"  cried  Hetty — her  face 
became  ghastly  pale,  her  eyes  brimmed  again  with 
tears.  "Then  you  would  indeed  kill  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  moan — "to  leave  you — Mr.  Eobert, 
you  must  guess  why  I  have  done  all  this." 

"  Hush, "  he  said  in  a  harsh  tone.  He  approached 
the  window,  where  the  blind  was  drawn  up.  He 
saw,  or  fancied  he  saw — Mrs.  Everett's  dark  figure 
passing  by  in  the  distance.  He  retreated  quickly 
into  the  shaded  part  of  the  room. 

"I  cannot  afford  to  misunderstand  your  words," 
he  said,  after  a  pause,  u  but  listen  to  me,  Hetty,  you 
must  never  allude  to  that  subject  again.  If  I  keep 
this  thing  to  myself  I  can  only  do  it  on  condition 
that  you  and  your  husband  leave  the  country.  I 
have  not  fully  made  up  my  mind  yet.  Nothing 
can  be  settled  to-night.  You  had  better  not  stay 
any  longer." 

Hetty  rose  totteringly  and  approached  the  door. 
Awdrey  took  the  key  from  his  pocket,  and  unlocked 
it  for  her.  As  he  did  so  he  asked  her  a  question. 


358  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  Yon  saw  everything?    You  saw  the  deed  done?** 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  saw  the  stick  in  your  hand,  and " 

"That  is  the  point  I  am  coming  to,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  What  did  I  do  with  the  stick?" 

"You  pushed  it  into  the  midst  of  some  un 
derwood,  sir,  about  twenty  feet  from  the  spot 
where "  She  could  not  finish  her  sentence. 

a  Yes,"  said  Awdrey  slowly.  "  I  remember  that 
Has  the  stick  ever  been  found?" 

"No, Mr.  Kobert,  that  couldn't  be." 

u  Why  do  you  say  that?  The  underwood  may 
be  cut  down  at  any  moment.  The  stick  has  my 
name  on  it.  It  may  come  to  light." 

"It  can't,  sir — 'tain't  there.  Aunt  Fanny  and 
me,  we  thought  o'  that,  and  we  went  the  night  after 
the  murder,  and  took  the  stick  out  from  where  you 
had  put  it,  and  weighted  it  with  stones,  and  threw 
it  into  the  deep  pond  close  by.  You  need  not  fear 
that,  Mr.  Eobert." 

Awdrey  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  narrowed  to 
a  line  of  satisfaction,  and  a  cunning  expression 
came  into  them,  altogether  foreign  to  his  face. 

He  softly  opened  the  door,  and  Hetty  passed  out, 
then  he  locked  it  again. 

He  was  alone  with  his  conscience.  He  fell  on 
his  knees  and  covered  his  face. 

"  God,  Thy  judgments  are  terrible,"  he  groaned. 


CHAPTER  XXTT. 

THERE  was  a  short  cut  at  the  back  of  the  office 
which  would  take  Hetty  on  to  the  high  road  with 
out  passing  round  by  the  front  of  the  house.  It  so 
happened  that  no  one  saw  her  when  she  arrived, 
and  no  one  also  saw  her  go.  When  she  reached  the 
road  she  stopped  still  to  give  vent  to  a  deep  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  Things  were  not  right,  but  they 
were  better  than  she  had  dared  hope.  Of  course 
the  Squire  remembered — he  could  not  have  looked 
at  her  as  he  had  done  the  night  before,  if  memory 
had  not  fully  come  back  to  him.  He  remembered 
— he  told  her  so,  but  she  was  also  nearly  certain 
that  he  would  not  confess  to  the  world  at  large  the 
crime  of  which  he  was  guilty. 

"I'll  keep  him  to  that,"  thought  Hetty.  "He 
may  think  nought  o'  himself — it's  in  his  race  not 
to  think  o'  theirselves — but  he'd  think  o'  his  wife 
and  p'raps  he'd  think  a  bit  o'  me.  There's  Mrs. 
Everett  and  there's  her  son,  and  they  both  suffer 
and  suffer  bad,  but  then  agen  there's  Mrs.  Awdrey 
and  there's  me — there's  two  on  us  agen  two,"  con 
tinued  Hetty,  rapidly  thinking  out  the  case,  and 
ranging  the  pros  and  cons  in  due  order  in  her 
mincl,  "yes,  there's  two  agen  two,'*  she  repeated, 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"  Mrs.  Everett  and  her  son  are  suffering  now — then 
it  'ud  be  Mrs.  Awdrey  and  me — and  surely  Mrs. 
Awdrey  is  nearer  to  Squire,  and  maybe  I'm  a  bit 
nearer  to  Squire  than  the  other  two.  Yes,  it  is 
but  fair  that  he  should  keep  the  secret  to  himself." 

The  sun  had  long  set  and  twilight  had  fallen  over 
the  land.  Hetty  had  to  walk  uphill  to  reach  the 
Gables,  the  name  of  her  husband's  farm.  It  would 
therefore  take  her  longer  to  return  home  than  it  did 
to  come  to  the  Court.  She  was  anxious  to  get  back 
as  quickly  as  possible.  It  would  never  do  for  Vin 
cent  to  find  out  that  she  had  deceived  him.  If  he 
slept  soundly,  as  she  fully  expected  he  would,  there 
was  not  the  least  fear  of  her  secret  being  discovered. 
Susan  never  entered  the  house  after  four  in  the 
afternoon.  The  men  who  worked  in  the  fields 
would  return  to  the  yard  to  put  away  their  tools, 
but  they  would  have  nothing  to  do  in  connection 
with  the  house  itself — thus  Vincent  would  be  left 
undisturbed  during  the  hours  of  refreshment  and 
restoration  which  Hetty  hoped  he  was  enjoying. 

"Yes,  I  did  well,"  she  murmured  to  herself, 
quickening  her  steps  as  the  thought  came  to  her. 
"I've  seen  Squire  and  there's  nought  to  be  dreaded 
for  a  bit,  anyway.  The  more  he  thinks  o'  it  the 
less  he'll  like  to  see  himself  in  the  prisoner's  dock 
and  me  and  Mrs.  Awdrey  and  aunt  as  witnesses 
agen  'im — and  knowing,  too,  that  me,  and,  perhaps, 
aunt,  too,  will  be  put  in  the  dock  in  our  turn. 
He's  bound  to  think  o'  us,  for  we  thought  o'  him 
— he  won't  like  to  get  us  into  a  hole,  and  he's  saf* 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  261 

not  to  do  it.  Yes,  things  look  straight  enough  for 
a  bit,  anyway.  I'm  glad  I  saw  Squire — he  looked 
splendid,  too,  stronger  than  I  ever  see  'im.  He 
don't  care  one  bit  for  me,  and  I — his  eyes  flashed 
so  angry  when  I  nearly  let  out — yes,  I  quite  let  out. 
He  said,  'I  can't  affect  to  misunderstand  you.' 
Ah,  he  knows  at  last,  he  knows  the  truth.  I'm 
glad  he  knows  the  truth.  There's  a  fire  inside  o' 
me,  and  it  burns  and  burns — it's  love  for  him — all 
my  life  it  has  consumed  within  me.  There's 
nought  I  wouldn't  do  for  'im.  Shame,  I'd  take  it 
light  for  his  sake — it  rested  me  fine  to  see  'im,  and 
to  take  a  real  good  look  at  'im.  Queer,  ain't  it, 
that  I  should  care  so  much  for  a  man  what  never 
give  me  a  thought,  but  what  is,  is,  and  can't  be 
helped.  Poor  Vincent,  he  worships  the  ground  I 
walk  on,  and  yet  he's  nought  to  me;  he  never  can 
be  anything  while  Squire  lives.  I  wonder  if  Squire 
thought  me  pretty  to-night.  I  wonder  if  he  noticed 
the  wild  flowers  in  the  bosom  of  my  jacket — I 
wonder.  I'm  glad  I've  a  secret  with  'im;  he  must 
see  me  sometimes,  and  he  must  talk  on  it;  and 
then  he'll  notice  that  I'm  pretty — prettier  than 
most  girls.  Oh,  my  heart,  how  it  beats !" 

Hetty  was  struggling  up  the  hill,  panting  as  she 
went.  The  pain  in  her  side  got  worse,  owing  to 
the  exercise.  She  had  presently  to  stop  to  take 
breath. 

"He  said  sum'mat  'bout  going  away,"  she  mur 
mured  to  herself;  "he  wants  me  and  Vincent  to 
leave  the  country,  but  we  won't  go.  No,  I  draw 


2G2  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

the  line  there.  He  thinks  I'll  split  on  'im.  I! 
Little  he  knows  me.  I  must  manage  to  show  him 
that  I  can  hold  my  secret,  so  as  no  one  in  all  the 
world  suspects.  Oh,  good  God,  I  wish  the  pain  in 
my  side  did  not  keep  on  so  constant.  I'll  take 
some  of  the  black  stuff  when  I  get  in;  it  always 
soothes  me ;  the  pain  will  go  soon  after  I  take  it, 
and  I'll  sleep  like  a  top  to-night.  Poor  George, 
what  a  sleep  he's  havin' ;  he'll  be  lively,  and  in  the 
best  o'  humors  when  he  wakes;  you  always  are 
when  you've  taken  that  black  stuff.  Now,  I  must 
hurry  on,  it's  getting  late." 

She  made  another  effort,  and  reached  the  summit 
of  the  hill. 

From  there  the  ground  sloped  away  until  it 
reached  the  Gables  Farm.  Hetty  now  put  wing  to 
her  feet  and  began  to  run,  but  the  pain  in  her  side 
stopped  her  again,  and  she  was  obliged  to  proceed 
more  slowly.  She  reached  home  just  when  it  was 
dark ;  the  place  was  absolutely  silent.  Susan,  who 
did  not  sleep  in  the  house,  had  gone  away ;  the  men 
had  evidently  come  into  the  yard,  put  their  tools 
by,  and  gone  off  to  their  respective  homes. 

"  That's  good, "  thought  Hetty.  "  Vincent's  stiU 
asleep — I'm  safe.  Now,  if  I  hurry  up  he'll  find 
the  place  lighted  and  cheerful,  and  everything  nice, 
and  his  supper  laid  out  for  him,  and  he'll  never 
guess,  never,  never." 

She  unlatched  the  gate  which  led  into  the  great 
yard ;  the  fowls  began  to  rustle  on  their  perches, 
and  the  house  dog,  Hover,  came  softly  up  to  her, 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  263 

and  rubbed  his  head  against  her  knee ;  she  patted 
him  abstractedly  and  hurried  on  to  the  house. 

She  had  a  latchkey  with  which  she  opened  the 
side  door;  she  let  herself  in,  and  shut  it  behind 
her.  The  place  was  still  and  dark. 

Hetty  knew  her  way  well;  she  stole  softly  along 
the  dark  passage,  and  opened  the  kitchen  door. 
The  fire  smouldered  low  in  the  range,  and  in  the 
surrounding  darkness  seemed  to  greet  her,  some 
thing  like  an  angry  eye.  When  she  entered  the 
room,  she  did  not  know  why  she  shivered. 

"He's  sound  asleep,"  she  murmured  to  herself; 
"that  lovely  black  stuff  ha'  done  'im  a  power  o' 
good.  I'll  have  a  dose  soon  myself,  for  my  heart 
beats  so  'ard,  and  the  pain  in  my  side  is  that 
bad." 

She  approached  the  fireplace,  opened  the  door 
of  the  range,  and  stirred  the  smouldering  coals  into 
the  semblance  of  a  blaze.  By  this  light,  which  was 
very  fitful  and  quickly  expired,  she  directed  her 
steps  to  a  shelf,  where  a  candlestick  and  candle 
and  matches  were  placed.  She  struck  a  match, 
and  lit  the  candle.  With  the  candle  in  her  hand 
she  then,  softly  and  on  tiptoe,  approached  the  settle 
where  her  husband  lay.  She  did  not  want  to  wake 
him  yet,  and  held  the  candle  in  such  a  way  that  the 
light  should  not  fall  on  his  face.  As  far  as  she 
could  tell  he  had  not  stirred  since  she  left  him,  two 
or  three  hours  ago ;  he  was  lying  on  his  back,  his 
arms  were  stretched  out  at  full  length  at  each  side, 
his  lips  were  slightly  open — as  well  as  she  could 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

see,  his  face  was  pale,  though  he  was  as  a  ride  » 
florid  man. 

"He's  sleepin'  beautiful,"  thought  Hetty. 
"  everything  has  been  splendid.  I'll  run  upstairs 
now  and  take  off  my  hat  and  jacket  and  make  my 
self  look  as  trim  as  I  can,  for  he  do  like,  poor 
George  do,  to  see  me  look  pretty.  Then  I'll  come 
down  and  lay  the  supper  on  the  table,  and  then 
when  everything  is  ready  I  think  I'll  wake  him. 
He  fell  asleep  soon  after  four,  and  it's  a  good  bit 
after  eight  now.  I  slept  much  longer  than  four 
hours  after  my  first  dose  of  the  nice  black  stuff, 
but  I  think  I'll  wake  'im  when  supper  is  ready. 
It'll  be  real  fun  when  he  sees  the  hour  and  knows 
how  long  he  'as  slept." 

Holding  her  candle  in  her  hand  Hetty  left  the 
kitchen  and  proceeded  to  light  the  different  lamps 
which  stood  about  in  the  passages.  She  then  went 
to  her  own  nice  bedroom  and  lit  a  pair  of  candles 
which  were  placed  on  each  side  of  her  dressing 
glass.  Having  done  this,  she  drew  down  the  blinds 
and  shut  the  windows.  She  then  carefully  removed 
her  hat,  took  the  cowslips  out  of  the  bosom  of  her 
dress,  kissed  them,  and  put  them  in  water. 

"Squire  looked  at  'em,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  He  didn't  touch  'em,  no,  but  he  looked  at  'em, 
and  then  he  looked  at  me  and  I  saw  in  his  eyes 
that  he  knew  I  were  pretty.  I  was  glad  then. 
Seemed  as  if  it  were  worth  living  just  for  Squire  to 
know  that  I  were  really  pretty." 

She  placed  the  flowers  in  a  jug  of  water,  folded 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  265 

up  her  jacket  and  gloves,  and  put  them  away  with 
her  hat  in  the  cupboard  in  the  wall.  She  then, 
with  the  candle  still  in  her  hand,  went  downstairs. 

The  kitchen  felt  chilly,  and  Hetty  shivered  as 
she  entered  it.  All  of  a  sudden  a  great  feeling  of 
weakness  seemed  to  tremble  through  her  slight 
frame ;  her  heart  fluttered  too,  seeming  to  bob  up 
and  down  within  her.  Then  it  quieted  down  again, 
but  the  constant  wearing  pain  grew  worse  and  ached 
so  perceptibly  that  she  had  to  catch  her  breath  now 
and  then. 

"I'll  be  all  right  when  I  can  have  a  good  dose," 
she  thought.  She  went  to  the  window,  farthest 
from  the  one  near  which  Vincent  was  lying,  and 
drew  down  the  blind ;  then  going  to  the  coal  cellar 
she  brought  out  some  firewood  and  large  knobs  of 
coal.  She  fed  the  range  and  the  fire  soon  crackled 
and  roared.  Hetty  stood  close  to  it,  and  warmed 
her  hands  by  the  blaze. 

"What  a  noise  it  do  make,"  she  said  to  herself. 
B  It  ought  to  wake  him ;  it  would  if  he  worn't  sleep- 
in'  so  sound  from  that  lovely  black  stuff.  Well, 
he  can  keep  on  for  a  bit  longer,  for  he  were  dead 
tired,  poor  man.  I'll  get  his  supper  afore  I  wake 
'im." 

She  went  out  to  the  scullery,  turned  on  the  tap 
and  filled  the  kettle  with  fresh  cold  water.  She  set 
it  on  the  stove  to  boil,  and  then  taking  a  coarse 
white  cloth  from  a  drawer  laid  it  on  the  centre 
table.  She  took  out  plates,  knives  and  forks  and 
glasses  for  two,  put  them  in  their  places,  laid  a 


266  DR.  RUlfSEY'S  PATIENT. 

dish  of  cold  bacon  opposite  Vincent's  plate,  and 
some  bread  and  a  large  square  of  cheese  opposite 
her  own.  Having  done  this,  she  looked  at  the 
sleeping  man.  He  was  certainly  quiet;  she  could 
not  even  hear  him  breathing.  As  a  rule  he  was  a 
stertorous  breather,  and  when  first  they  were  mar 
ried  Hetty  could  scarcely  sleep  with  his  snoring. 

"  He  don't  snore  to-night — he's  resting  wonder 
ful,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Now,  I  just  know  what 
I'll  do — he  mayn't  care  when  he  wakes  for  nothing 
but  cold  stuff — I'll  boil  some  fresh  eggs  for  his  sup 
per,  and  I'll  make  some  cocoa.  I'll  have  a  nice  jug 
of  milk  cocoa  and  a  plate  of  eggs  all  ready  by  the 
time  he  wakes." 

She  fetched  a  saucepan,  some  milk,  and  half-a- 
dozen  new-laid  eggs.  Soon  the  cocoa  was  made 
and  poured  into  a  big  jug,  the  eggs  just  done  to  a 
turn  were  put  upon  a  plate ;  they  were  brown  eggs, 
something  the  color  of  a  deep  nut. 

"I  could  fancy  one  myself,"  thought  Hetty;  "I 
ain't  eat  nothing  to  speak  of  for  hours.  Oh,  I  do 
wish  the  pain  in  my  side  'ud  get  better." 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  the  region  of  her  heart 
and  looked  around  her.  The  farm  kitchen  was 
now  the  picture  of  comfort — the  fire  blazed  merrily. 
Hetty  had  lit  a  large  paraffin  lamp  and  placed  it  in 
the  centre  of  the  table ;  it  lit  up  the  cosy  room,  even 
the  beams  and  rafters  glistened  in  the  strong  light; 
shadows  from  the  fire  leaped  up  and  reflected  them 
selves  on  the  sleeper's  face. 

"He's  very  white  and  very  still,"  thought  Hetty; 


*R.  BUMSSY'8  PATIENT. 

"maybe  he  has  slept  long  enough.  I  think  I'll 
wake  him  now,  for  supper's  ready." 

Then  came  a  scratching  at  the  window  outside, 
and  the  fretful  howl  of  a  dog. 

"  There's  Rover;  what's  the  matter  with  him?  I 
wish  he  wouldn't  howl  like  that,"  thought  the 
wife.  "  I  hate  dogs  that  howl.  Maybe  I  had  best 
let  'im  in." 

She  ran  to  the  kitchen  door,  flew  down  the  pas 
sage,  and  opened  the  door  which  led  into  the  yard. 

"Rover,  stop  that  noise  and  come  along  in,"  she 
called. 

The  great  dog  shuffled  up  to  her  and  thrust  his 
head  into  her  hand.  She  brought  him  into  the 
kitchen.  The  moment  she  did  so  he  sat  down  on 
his  haunches,  threw  up  his  head,  'and  began  to 
howl  again. 

"Nonsense,  Rover,  stop  that  noise,"  she  said. 
She  struck  him  a  blow  on  his  forehead,  he  cowered, 
looked  at  her  sorrowfully,  and  then  tried  to  lick  her 
hand.  She  brought  him  to  the  fire ;  he  came  un 
willingly,  slinking  down  at  last  with  his  back  to 
the  still  figure  on  the  settle. 

"  Queer,  what's  the  matter  with  him?"  thought 
Hetty.  "They  say,  folks  do,  that  dogs  see  things 
We  don't;  some  folks  say  they  see  sperrits.  Aunt 
would  be  in  a  fuss  if  Rover  went  on  like  that. 
Dear,  I  am  turning  nervous;  fancy  minding  the 
howl  of  a  dog.  It's  true  my  nerves  ain't  what  they 
wor.  Well,  cocoa  will  spoil,  and  eggs  will  spoil, 
and  time  has  come  for  me  to  wake  Vincent.  What 


868  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

a  laugh  we'll  have  together  when  I  tell  'im  of  hi« 
long  sleep." 

She  approached  the  sofa  now,  but  her  steps 
dragged  themselves  as  she  went  up  to  it  and  bent 
down  over  her  husband  and  called  his  name. 

"George!"  she  said.  "George!"  He  never 
moved.  She  went  a  little  nearer,  calling  him  louder. 

"  George,  George,  wake  up !"  she  said.  "  Wake, 
George,  you've  slept  for  over  four  hours.  Supper 
is  ready,  George — cocoa  and  eggs,  your  favorite 
supper.  Wake!  George,  wake!" 

The  dog  howled  by  the  fire. 

"  Rover,  I'll  turn  you  out  if  you  make  that  noise 
again,"  said  Hetty.  She  went  on  her  knees  now 
by  the  sleeping  man,  and  shook  him.  His  head 
moved  when  she  did  so  and  she  thought  he  was 
about  to  open  his  eyes,  but  when  she  took  her 
hands  away  there  was  not  a  motion,  not  a  sound. 

a  What  is  it?"  she  said  to  herself.  For  the  first 
time  a  very  perceptible  fear  crept  into  her  heart. 
She  bent  low  and  listened  for  the  breathing. 

"  He  do  breathe  gentle, "  she  murmured.  "  I  cat. 
scarcely  hear;  do  I  hear  at  all.  I  think  I'll  fetch 
a  candle." 

In  shaking  the  farmer  she  had  managed  to  dis 
lodge  one  of  his  hands,  which  had  fallen  forward 
over  the  edge  of  the  settle.  She  took  it  up,  then 
she  let  it  fall  with  a  slight  scream;  it  was  cold,  icy 
cold! 

*  Good  God !  Oh,  God  in  heaven !  what  is  it?" 
mattered  the  wife. 


DR.  RUMSEY'8  PATIENT.  269 

real  significance  of  the  thing  had  not  ye* 
flashed  upon  her  bewildered  brain,  but  a  sick  feai 
was  creeping  over  her.  She  went  for  the  candle, 
and  bringing  it  back,  held  it  close  to  the  ashen 
face.  It  was  not  only  white,  it  was  gray.  The 
lips  were  faintly  open,  but  not  a  breath  proceeded 
from  them.  The  figure  was  already  stiff  in  the  icy 
embrace  of  death. 

Hetty  had  seen  death  before;  its  aspect  was  to< 
unmistakable  for  her  not  to  recognize  it  again.  Shv 
fell  suddenly  forward,  putting  out  the  candle  as  sh* 
did  so.  Her  face,  almost  as  white  as  the  face  of 
the  dead  man,  was  pressed  against  his  breast.  Pop 
a  brief  few  moments  she  was  unconscious. 


CHAPTEK 

THE  twilight  darkened  into  night,  but  Awdrey 
still  remained  in  the  office.  After  a  time  he  groped 
for  a  box  of  matches,  found  one,  struck  a  match, 
took  a  pair  of  heavy  silver  candlesticks  from  a  cup 
board  in  the  wall,  lit  the  candles  which  were  in 
them,  and  then  put  them  on  his  office  table.  The 
room  was  a  large  one,  and  the  light  of  the  two  can 
dles  seemed  only  to  make  the  darkness  visible. 
Awdrey  went  to  the  table,  seated  himself  in  the 
old  chair  which  his  father  and  his  grandfather  had 
occupied  before  him,  and  began  mechanically  to 
arrange  some  papers,  and  put  a  pile  of  other  things 
in  order.  His  nature  was  naturally  full  of  system ; 
from  his  childhood  up  he  had  hated  untidiness  of  all 
sorts.  While  he  was  so  engaged  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  office  door.  He  rose,  went  across  the 
room,  and  opened  it ;  a  footman  stood  without. 

"  Mrs.  Awdrey  has  sent  me  to  ask  you,  sir,  if  you 
are  ready  for  dinner." 

*  Tell  your  mistress  that  I  am  not  coming  in  to 
dinner,"  replied  Awdrey.  "Ask  her  not  to  wait 
for  me ;  I  am  particularly  busy,  and  will  have  some 
thing  later." 

The  man,  with  an  immovable  countenance,  turned 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  271 

away.  Awdrey  once  more  locked  the  office  door. 
He  now  drew  down  the  remaining  blinds  to  the 
other  two  windows,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  long  room.  The  powers  of  good  and  evil  were 
at  this  moment  fighting  for  his  soul — he  knew  it ; 
there  was  a  tremendous  conflict  raging  within  him ; 
it  seemed  to  tear  his  life  in  two ;  beads  of  perspi 
ration  stood  on  his  brow.  He  knew  that  either  the 
God  who  made  him  or  the  devil  would  have  won 
the  victory  before  he  left  that  room. 

"I  must  make  my  decision  once  for  all,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  I  am  wide  awake ;  my  whole  intel 
lectual  nature  is  full  of  vigor;  I  have  no  excuse 
whatever ;  the  matter  must  be  finally  settled  now. 

If  I  follow  the  devil "  he  shrank  as  the  words 

formed  themselves  out  of  his  brain ;  he  had  natur 
ally  the  utmost  loathing  for  evil  in  any  form,  his 
nature  was  meant  to  be  upright ;  at  school  he  had 
been  one  of  the  good  boys ;  one  of  the  boys  to  whom 
low  vices,  dishonorable  actions  of  any  kind,  were 
simply  impossible ;  he  had  had  his  weaknesses,  for 
who  has  not? — but  these  weaknesses  were  all  more 
or  less  akin  to  the  virtues. 

"If  I  choose  the  devil!"  he  repeated.  Once 
again  he  faltered,  trembling  violently ;  he  had  come 
to  the  part  of  the  room  where  his  father's  old  desk 
was  situated,  he  leaned  up  against  it  and  gazed 
gloomily  out  into  the  darkness  which  confronted 
him. 

"  I  know  exactly  what  will  happen  if  I  follow  the 
downward  path,"  lie  said  again,  "I  must  force 


372  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

myself  to  think  wrong  right,  and  right  wrong. 
There  is  no  possible  way  for  me  to  live  this  life  of 
deception  except  by  deceiving  myself.  Must  I 
decide  to-night?" 

He  staggered  into  the  chair  which  his  father  used 
to  occupy.  His  father  had  been  a  man  full  of  rec 
titude  ;  the  doom  of  the  house  had  never  overtaken 
him ;  he  had  been  a  man  with  an  almost  too  severe 
and  lofty  code  of  honor.  Awdrey  remembered  all 
about  his  father  as  he  sat  in  that  chair.  He  sprang 
again  to  his  feet. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  putting  off  the  hour,  for  the 
hour  has  come,"  he  thought.  "  This  is  the  state  of 
the  case.  God  and  the  devil  are  with  me  to-night. 
I  cannot  lie  in  the  presence  of  .such  awful,  such 
potent  Forces.  I  must  face  the  thing  as  it  is. 
This  is  what  has  happened  to  me.  I,  who  would 
not  willingly  in  my  sober  senses,  hurt  the  smallest 
insect  that  crawls  on  the  earth,  once,  nearly  six  years 
ago,  in  a  sudden  moment  of  passion  killed  a  man. 
He  attacked  me,  and  I  defended  myself.  I  killed 
him  in  self-defence.  I  no  more  meant  to  kill  him 
than  I  mean  to  commit  murder  to-night.  Notwith 
standing  that  fact  I  did  it.  Doubtless  the  action 
came  over  me  as  a  tremendous  shock — immediately 
after  the  deed  the  doom  of  my  house  fell  on  me, 
and  I  forgot  all  about  what  I  myself  had  done — for 
five  years  the  memory  of  it  never  returned  to  me. 
Now  I  know  all  about  it.  At  the  present  moment 
another  man  is  suffering  in  my  stead.  Now  if  I 
follow  the  devil  I  shall  be  a  brute  and  a  scoundrel  j 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  273 

the  other  man  will  go  on  suffering,  and  his  mother, 
whose  heart  is  already  broken,  may  die  before  he 
recovers  his  liberty.  Thus  I  shall  practically  kill 
two  lives.  No  one  will  know — no  one  will  guess 
that  I  am  leading  a  shadowed  life.  I  feel  strong 
enough  now  to  cover  up  the  deed,  to  hide  away  the 
remorse.  I  feel  not  the  least  doubt  that  I  shall  be 
outwardly  successful — the  respect  of  my  fellow-men 
will  follow  me — the  love  of  many  will  be  given  to 
me.  By  and  by  I  may  have  children,  and  they 
will  love  me  as  I  loved  my  father,  and  Margaret 
will  look  up  to  me  and  consult  n»  as  my  mother 
looked  up  to  and  consulted  my  father,  and  my 
honor  will  be  considered  above  reproach.  My 
people  too  will  rejoice  to  have  me  back  with  them. 
I  can  serve  them  if  I  am  returned  for  this  constit 
uency — in  short,  I  can  live  a  worthy  and  respected 
life.  The  devil  will  have  his  way,  but  no  one  will 
guess  that  it  is  the  devil's  way — I  shall  seem  to 
live  the  life  of  an  angel." 

Awdrey  paused  here  in  his  own  thought. 

"I  feel  as  if  the  devil  were  laughing  at  me,"  he 
said,  speaking  half  aloud,  and  looking  again  into 
the  darkness  of  the  room — "  he  knows  that  his  hour 
will  come — by  and  by  my  span  of  life  will  run  out 
— eventually  I  shall  reach  the  long  end  of  the  long 
way.  But  until  that  time,  day  by  day,  and  hour 
by  hour,  I  shall  live  the  life  of  the  hypocrite.  Like 
a  whited  sepulchre  shall  I  be  truly,  for  I  shall  carry 
hell  here.  By  and  by  I  shall  have  to  answer  for 
all  at  a  Higher  Tribunal,  and  meanwhile  I  shall 


274  DR.  RDMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

carry  hell  here."  He  pressed  his  hand  to  his 
breast — his  face  was  ghastly.  u  Shall  I  follow  the 
devil?  Suppose  I  do  not,  what  then?" 

There  came  another  tap  at  the  office  door.  Aw- 
drey  went  across  the  room  and  opened  it.  He 
started  and  uttered  a  smothered  oath,  for  Margaret 
stood  on  the  threshold. 

"  Go  away  now,  Maggie,  I  can't  see  you ;  I  am 
very  much  engaged,"  he  said. 

Instead  of  obeying  him  she  stepped  across  the 
threshold. 

"But  you  have  no  one  with  you,"  she  said,  look 
ing  into  the  darkness  of  the  room.  "  What  are  you 
doing,  Robert,  all  by  yourself?  You  look  very 
white  and  tired.  We  have  finished  dinner— my 
uncle  has  come  over  from  Cuthbertstown,  and 
would  like  to  see  you — they  all  think  it  strange 
your  being  away.  What  is  the  matter?  Won't 
you  return  with  me  to  the  house?" 

"I  cannot  yet.     I  am  particularly  engaged." 

"But  what  about?  Uncle  James  will  be  much 
disappointed  if  he  does  not  see  you." 

"I'll  come  to  him  presently  when  I  have  thought 
out  a  problem." 

Margaret  turned  herself  now  in  such  a  position 
that  she  could  see  her  husband's  face.  Something 
in  his  eyes  seemed  to  speak  straight  to  her  sym 
pathies, — she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"Don't  think  any  more  now,  my  darling,"  she 
said.  "  Remember,  though  you  are  so  well,  that 
you  were  once  very  ill.  You  have  had  no  dinner, 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  275 

it  is  not  right  for  you  to  starve  yourself  and  tire 
yourself.  Come  home  with  me,  Robert,  come 
home!" 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied.  "There  is  a  knot  which 
I  must  untie.  I  am  thinking  a  very  grave  problem 
out.  I  shall  have  no  rest,  no  peace,  until  I  have 
made  up  my  mind." 

"  What  can  be  the  matter?"  inquired  Margaret, 
"Can  I  help  you  in  any  way?" 

"No,  my  dearest,"  he  answered  very  tenderly, 
"except  by  leaving  me." 

"  Is  it  anything  to  do  with  accounts?"  she  asked. 
She  glanced  at  the  table  with  its  pile  of  letters  and 
papers.  "  If  so,  I  could  really  render  you  assist 
ance  ;  I  used  to  keep  accounts  for  Uncle  James  in 
the  old  days.  Two  brains  are  better  than  one. 
Let  me  help  you." 

"It  is  a  mental  problem,  Maggie;  it  relates  to 
morals." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  Robert,  you  are  quite  mysterious," 
she  said  with  a  ghost  of  a  smile;  but  then  she  met 
his  eyes  and  the  trouble  in  them  startled  her. 

"I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  she  said.  "Do  let 
me." 

"You  cannot,"  he  replied  harshly,  for  the  look 
in  her  face  added  to  his  tortures.  "  I  shall  come 
to  a  conclusion  presently.  When  I  come  to  it  I 
will  return  to  the  house." 

"  Then  we  are  not  to  wait  up  for  you?  It  is  get 
ting  quite  late,  long  past  nine  o'clock." 

"Po  not  wait  up  for  me;  leave  the  side  door  on 


276  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

the  latch ;  I'll  come  in  presently  when  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  on  this  important  matter." 

She  approached  the  door  unwillingly ;  when  she 
reached  the  threshold  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"I  cannot  but  see  that  you  are  worried  about 
something,"  she  said.  "I  know,  Robert,  that  you 
will  have  strength  to  do  what  is  right.  I  cannot 
imagine  what  your  worry  can  be,  but  a  moral  prob 
lem  with  you  must  mean  the  victory  of  right  over 
wrong." 

u  Maggie,  you  drive  me  mad,"  he  called  after  her, 
but  his  voice  was  hoarse,  and  it  did  not  reach  her 
ears.  She  closed  the  door,  and  he  heard  her  re 
treating  footsteps  on  the  gravel  outside.  He  locked 
the  door  once  more. 

"  There  spoke  God  and  my  good  angel,"  he  mur 
mured  to  himself.  "  Help  me,  Powers  of  Evil,  if  I 
am  to  follow  you;  give  me  strength  to  walk  the 
path  of  the  lowest." 

These  words  had  scarcely  risen  in  the  form  of  an 
awful  prayer  when  once  again  he  heard  his  wife's 
voice  at  the  door.  She  was  tapping  and  calling  to 
him  at  the  same  time.  He  opened  the  door. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  she  replied,  "but 
you  really  must  put  off  all  your  reflections  for  the 
time  being.  Who  do  you  think  has  just  arrived?" 

"Who?"  he  asked  in  a  listless  voice. 

"Your  old  friend  and  mine,  Dr.  Rumsey." 

"Rumsey!"  replied  Awdrey,  "he  would  be  a 
strong  advocate  on  your  side,  Maggie.'* 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  277 

"  On  my  side  ?  "  she  queried. 

"  I  cannot  explain  myself.  I  think  I'll  see  1  hm- 
sey.  It  would  be  possible  for  me  to  put  a  quef  don 
to  him  which  I  could  not  put  to  you — ask  him  to 
come  to  me." 

"  He  shall  come  at  once,"  she  answered,  "  I  am 
heartily  glad  that  he  is  here." 

So  he  turned  back  and  went  to  the  house — she 
ran  up  the  front  steps — Rumsey  was  in  the  hall. 

"  My  hearty  congratulations,"  he  said,  coming 
up  to  her.  "  Your  letter  contained  such  good  news 
that  I  could  not  forbear  hurrying  down  to  Grand- 
court  to  take  a  peep  at  my  strange  patient ;  I  always 
call  Awdrey  my  strange  patient.  Is  it  true  that  he 
is  now  quite  well  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour  ago  I  should  have  said  yes,"  re 
plied  Margaret ;  "  but " 

"  Any  recurrence  of  the  old  symptoms  ?  "  asked 
the  doctor. 

"  No,  nothing  of  that  sort.  Perhaps  the  excite 
ment  has  been  too  much  for  him.  Come  into  the 
library,  will  you  ?  " 

She  entered  as  she  spoke,  the  doctor  following 
her. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  when  I  was  abroad,"  continued 
Margaret,  "  telling  you  the  simple  fact  that  my  hus 
band's  state  of  health  had  gone  from  better  to 
better.  He  recovered  tone  of  mind  and  body  in 
the  most  rapid  degree.  This  morning  I  considered 
him  a  man  of  perfect  physical  health  and  of  keen 
brilliant  intellect,  You  know  during  the  five  years 


278  DR.  RVMSEY'S  PATIEiW. 

when  the  cloud  was  over  his  brain  he  refused  to 
read,  and  lost  grip  of  all  passing  events.  There  is 
no  subject  now  of  general  interest  that  he  cannot 
talk  about — all  matters  of  public  concern  arouse 
his  keenest  sympathies.  To-day  he  has  been 
nominated  to  stand  for  his  constituency,  vacant  by 
he  death  of  our  late  member.  I  have  no  doubt 
chat  he  will  represent  us  in  the  House  when  Par 
liament  next  sits." 

"  Or  perhaps  before  this  one  rises,"  said  the  doc. 
tor.  "Well,  Mrs.  Awdrey,  all  this  sounds  most 
encouraging,  but  your  'but'  leads  to  something  not 
so  satisfactory,  does  it  not?" 

"  That  is  so ;  at  the  present  moment  I  do  not  like 
his  state.  He  was  out  and  about  all  day,  but  in 
stead  of  returning  home  to  dinner  went  straight  to 
his  office,  where  he  now  is.  As  far  as  I  can  see, 
he  is  doing  no  special  work,  but  he  will  not  come 
into  the  house.  He  tells  me  that  he  is  facing  a 
problem  which  he  also  says  is  a  moral  one.  He 
refuses  to  leave  the  office  until  he  has  come  to  a 
satisfactory  conclusion." 

"Come,  he  is  overdoing  it,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  think  so.  I  told  him  just  now  that  you  had 
arrived;  he  asked  me  to  bring  you  to  him;  will 
you  come?" 

"With  pleasure." 

"  Can  you  do  without  a  meal  until  you  have  seen 
him?" 

"Certainly;  take  me  to  him  at  once." 

Mrs.  Awdrey  left  the  house,  and  took  Dr.  Rum- 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

sey  round  by  the  side  walk  which  led  to  the  office. 
The  door  was  now  slightly  ajar ;  Margaret  entered 
the  doctor  following  behind  her. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Dr.  Kumsey,  in  his 
cheerful  voice,  "  it  is  good  to  see  you  back  in  your 
old  place  again.  Your  wife's  letter  was  so  satis 
factory  that  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
coming  to  see  you  for  myself." 

"  I  am  in  perfect  health,"  replied  Awdrey.  a  Sit 
down,  won't  you,  Eumsey?  Margaret,  my  dear, 
do  you  mind  leaving  us?" 

"No,  Eobert,"  she  answered.  "I  trust  to  Dr. 
Eumsey  to  bring  you  back  to  your  senses." 

"She  does  not  know  what  she  is  saying,"  mut 
tered  Awdrey.  He  followed  his  wife  to  the  door, 
and  when  she  went  out  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"It  is  a  strange  thing,"  he  said,  the  moment  he 
found  himself  alone  with  his  guest,  "that  you, 
Eumsey,  should  be  here  at  this  moment.  You 
were  with  me  during  the  hour  of  my  keenest  and 
most  terrible  physical  and  mental  degradation; 
you  have  now  come  to  see  me  through  the  hour  of 
my  moral  degradation — or  victory." 

"Your  moral  degradation  or  victory?"  said  the 
doctor;  "what  does  this  mean?" 

"It  simply  means  this,  Dr.  Eumsey;  I  am  th« 
unhappy  possessor  of  a  secret." 

"Ah!" 

"Yes — a  secret.  Were  this  secret  known  my 
wife's  heart  would  be  broken,  and  this  honorable 


280  DR.  RVMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

house  of  which  I  am  the  last  descendant  would  go 
to  complete  shipwreck.  I  don't  talk  of  myself  it 
the  matter." 

"Do  you  mean  to  confide  in  me?"  asked  the 
doctor,  after  a  pause. 

"I  cannot;  for  the  simple  reason,  that  if  I  told 
you  everything  you  would  be  bound  as  a  man  and 
a  gentleman  to  take  steps  to  insure  the  downfall 
which  I  dread." 

"Are  you  certain  that  you  are  not  suffering  from 
delusion?" 

"  No,  doctor,  I  wish  I  were.** 

"You  certainly  look  sane  enough,"  said  the  doc 
tor,  examining  his  patient  with  one  of  his  pene 
trating  glances.  a  You  must  allow  me  to  congratu 
late  you.  If  I  had  not  seen  you  with  my  own  eyes 
I  could  never  have  believed  in  such  a  reformation. 
You  are  bronzed;  your  frame  has  widened;  you 
have  not  a  scrap  of  superfluous  flesh  about  you. 
Let  me  feel  your  arm;  my  dear  sir,  your  muscle  is 
to  be  envied." 

"  I  was  famed  for  my  athletic  power  long  ago, ' 
said  Awdrey,  with  a  grim  smile.  "But  now, 
doctor,  to  facts.  You  have  come  here;  it  is 
possible  foi  me  to  take  you  into  my  confidence  to 
a  certain  extent.  Will  you  allow  me  to  state  my 
case?" 

"As  you  intend  only  to  state  it  partially  it 
will  be  difficult  for  me  to  advise  you,"  said  the 
doctor. 

-Still,  will  you  listen?" 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  281 

Til  listen." 

"Well,  the  fact  is  this,"  said  Awdrey,  rising, 
"  either  God  or  the  devil  take  possession  of  me 
to-night." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Kumsey,  "you  are  exagger 
ating  the  state  of  the  case." 

"  I  am  not.  I  am  going  through  the  most  des 
perate  fight  that  ever  assailed  a  man.  I  may  get 
out  on  the  side  of  good,  but  at  the  present  moment 
I  must  state  frankly  that  all  my  inclinations  tend 
to  getting  out  of  this  struggle  on  the  side  which 
will  put  me  into  the  Devil's  hands." 

"Come,"  said  the  doctor  again,  aif  that  is  so 
there  can  be  no  doubt  with  regard  to  your  position. 
You  must  close  with  right  even  though  it  is  a 
struggle.  You  confess  to  possessing  a  secret;  that 
secret  is  the  cause  of  your  misery ;  there  is  a  right 
and  a  wrong  to  it?" 

*  Undoubtedly;  a  very  great  right  and  a  very 
grave  wrong." 

u  Then,  Awdrey,  do  not  hesitate;  be  man  enough 
to  do  the  right." 

Awdrey  turned  white. 

a  You  are  the  second  person  who  has  come  here 
to-night  and  advised  me  on  the  side  of  God,"  he 
said. 

"  Out  with  your  trouble,  man,  and  relieve  your 
mind." 

"When  I  relieve  my  mind,"  said  Awdrey,  "my 
wife's  heart  will  break,  and  our  house  will  be 
ruined." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

"What  about  you?" 

"I  shall  go  under." 

"  I  doubt  very  much  if  your  doing  right  would 
ever  break  a  heart  like  your  wife's,"  said  Bumsey, 
"but  doing  wrong  would  undoubtedly  crush  her 
spirit." 

"There  you  are  again — will  no  one  take  the 
Devil's  part?  Dr.  Eumsey,  I  firmly  believe  that 
it  is  much  owing  to  your  influence  that  I  am  now 
in  my  sane  mind.  I  believe  that  it  is  owing  to 
you  that  the  doom  of  my  house  has  been  lifted  from 
my  brain.  When  I  think  of  the  path  which  you 
now  advocate,  I  could  curse  the  day  when  you 
brought  me  back  to  health  and  sanity.  A  very 
little  influence  on  the  other  side,  a  mere  letting  me 
alone,  and  I  should  now  either  be  a  madman  or  in 
my  grave;  then  I  would  have  carried  my  secret  to 
the  bitter  end.  As  it  is " 

There  was  a  noise  heard  outside — the  sound 
made  by  a  faltering  footstep.  The  brush  of  a 
woman's  dress  was  distinctly  audible  against  the 
door ;  this  was  followed  by  a  timid  knock. 

u  Who  is  disturbing  us  now?"  said  Awdrey,  with 
irritation. 

"I'll  open  the  door  and  see,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  crossed  the  room  as  he  spoke  and  opened  the 
door.  An  untidily  dressed  girl  with  a  ghastly  white 
face  stood  without.  When  the  door  was  opened 
she  peered  anxiously  into  the  room. 

"Is  Mr.  Awdrey  in? — yes,  I  see  him.  I  must 
speak  to  him  at  cnce." 


Dtt.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  283 

She  staggered  across  the  threshold. 

"I  must  see  you  alone,  Squire,"  she  said — 
"  quite  alone  and  at  once." 

"  This  has  to  do  with  the  matter  under  consider- 
tion,"  said  the  Squire.  "Come  in,  Hetty;  sit 
down.  Kumseys,  you  had  best  leave  ua." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A  REAL  faint,  or  suspension  of  the  heart's  action, 
is  never  a  long  affair.  When  Hetty  fell  in  an  un 
conscious  state  against  the  body  of  her  dead  hus 
band  she  quickly  recovered  herself.  Her  intellect 
was  keen  enough,  and  she  knew  exactly  what  had 
happened.  The  nice  black  stuff  which  gave  such 
pleasant  dreams  had  killed  Vincent.  She  had  there 
fore  killed  him.  Yes,  he  was  stone  dead — she  had 
seen  death  once  or  twice  before,  and  could  not  pos 
sibly  mistake  it.  She  had  seen  her  mother  die  long 
ago,  and  had  stood  by  the  deathbed  of  more  than 
one  neighbor.  The  cold,  the  stiffness,  the  gray- 
white  appearance,  all  told  her  beyond  the  possibil- 
ty  of  doubt  that  life  was  not  only  extinct,  but  had 
been  extinct  for  at  least  a  couple  of  hours.  Her 
husband  was  dead.  When  she  had  given  him  that 
fatal  dose  he  had  been  in  the  full  vigor  of  youth 
and  health — now  he  was  dead.  _  She  had  never  loved 
him  in  life ;  although  he  had  been  an  affectionate 
husband  to  her,  but  at  this  moment  she  shed  a  few 
tears  for  him.  Not  many,  for  they  were  completely 
swallowed  up  in  the  fear  and  terror  which  grew 
greater  and  greater  each  moment  within  her.  He 
was  dead,  and  she  had  killed  him.  Long  ago  the 


Dtt.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

had  concealed  the  knowledge  of  a  murder  because 
she  loved  the  man  who  had  committed  it.  Now 
she  had  committed  murder  herself — not  intention 
ally,  no,  no.  No  more  had  she  intended  to  kill  Vin 
cent  than  Awdrey  when  he  was  out  that  night  had 
intended  to  take  the  life  of  Horace  Frere.  But 
Frere  was  dead  and  now  Vincent  was  dead,  and 
Hetty  would  be  tried  for  the  crime.  No,  surely 
they  could  not  try  her — they  could  not  possibly 
bring  it  home  to  her.  How  could  a  little  thing  like 
she  was  be  supposed  to  take  the  life  of  a  big  man? 
She  had  never  meant  to  injure  him,  too — she  had 
only  meant  to  give  him  a  good  sleep,  to  rest  him 
thoroughly — to  deceive  him,  of  course — to  do  a 
thing  which  she  knew  if  he  were  aware  of  would 
break  his  heart;  but  to  take  his  life,  no,  nothing 
was  further  from  her  thoughts.  Nevertheless  the 
deed  was  done. 

Oh,  it  was  horrible,  horrible — she  hated  being  so 
close  to  the  dead  body.  It  was  no  longer  Vincent, 
the  man  who  would  have  protected  her  at  the  risk 
of  his  life,  it  was  a  hideous  dead  body.  She  would 
get  away  from  it — she  would  creep  up  close  to 
Rover.  No  wonder  Rover  hated  the  room;  per 
haps  he  saw  the  spirit  of  her  husband.  Oh,  how 
frightened  she  was !  What  was  the  matter  with  her 
side? — why  did  her  heart  beat  so  strangely,  gallop 
ing  one,  two,  three,  then  pausing,  then  one,  two, 
three  again? — and  the  pain,  the  sick,  awful  pain. 
Yes,  she  knew — she  was  sick  to  death  with  terror. 

She  got  up  presently  from  where  she  had  beea 


286  DR.  KUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

kneeling  by  her  dead  husband's  side  and  staggered 
across  to  the  fireplace.  She  tried  wildly  to  think, 
but  she  found  herself  incapable  of  reasoning. 
Shivering  violently,  she  approached  the  table, 
poured  out  a  cup  of  the  cocoa  which  was  still  hot, 
and  managed  to  drink  it  off.  The  warm  liquid  re 
vived  her,  and  she  felt  a  shade  better  and  more 
capable  of  thought.  Her  one  instinct  now  was  to 
save  herself.  Vincent  was  dead — no  one  in  all  the 
world  could  bring  him  back  to  life,  but,  if  possible, 
Hetty  would  so  act  that  not  a  soul  in  all  the 
country  should  suspect  her.  How  could  she  make 
things  safe?  If  it  were  known,  known  every 
where,  that  she  was  away  from  him  when  he  died, 
then  of  course  she  would  be  safe.  Yes,  this  fact 
must  be  known.  Once  she  had  saved  the  Squire, 
now  the  Squire  must  save  her.  It  must  be  known 
everywhere  that  she  had  sought  an  interview  with 
him — that  at  the  time  when  Vincent  died  she  was 
in  the  Squire's  presence,  shut  up  in  the  office 
with  him,  the  door  locked — she  and  the  Squire 
alone  together.  This  secret,  which  she  would 
have  fought  to  the  death  to  keep  to  herself  an 
hour  ago,  must  now  be  blazoned  abroad  to  a  criti 
cising  world.  The  lesser  danger  to  the  Squire 
must  be  completely  swallowed  up  in  the  greater 
danger  to  herself.  She  must  hurry  to  him  at  once 
and  get  him  to  tell  what  he  knew.  Ah,  yes,  if  he 
did  this  she  would  be  safe — she  remembered  the 
right  word  at  last,  for  she  had  heard  the  neigh 
bors  speak  of  it  when  it  a  celebrated  trial  was  go- 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  287 

ing  on  in  Salisbury — she  must  prove  an  alibi — then 
it  would  be  known  that  she  had  been  absent  from 
home  when  her  husband  died. 

The  imminence  of  the  danger  made  her  at  last 
feel  quiet  and  steady.  She  took  up  the  lighted 
candle  and  went  into  the  dairy — she  unlocked  the 
mpboard  in  the  wall  and  took  out  the  bottle  of 
laudanum.  Returning  to  the  kitchen  she  emptied 
the  contents  of  the  bottle  into  the  range  and  then 
threw  the  bottle  itself  also  into  the  heart  of  the  fire 
— she  watched  it  as  it  slowly  melted  under  the  in 
fluence  of  the  hot  fire — the  laudanum  itself  was  also 
licked  up  by  the  hungry  flames.  That  tell-tale  and 
awful  evidence  of  her  guilt  was  at  least  removed. 
She  forgot  all  about  Susan  having  seen  the  liquid  in 
the  morning — she  knew  nothing  about  the  evidence 
which  would  be  brought  to  light  at  a  coroner's  in 
quest — about  the  facts  which  a  doctor  would  be  sure 
to  give.  Nothing  but  the  bare  reality  remained 
prominently  before  her  excited  brain.  Vincent  was 
dead — she  had  killed  him  by  an  overdose  of  lauda 
num  which  she  had  given  him  in  all  innocence  to 
make  him  sleep — but  yet,  yet  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
she  knew  that  her  motive  would  not  bear  explana 
tion. 

"Squire  will  save  me,"  she  said  to  herself — "if 
it's  proved  that  I  were  with  Squire  I  am  safe.  I'll 
go  to  him  now — I'll  tell  'im  all  at  once.  It's  late, 
very  late,  and  it's  dark  outside,  but  I'll  go." 

Hetty  left  the  room,  leaving  the  dog  behind  her — 
he  uttered  a  frightful  howl  when  she  did  so  and 


288  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

followed  her  as  far  as  the  door — she  shut  and  locked 
the  doo? — he  scratched  at  it  to  try  and  release  him 
self,  but  Hetty  took  no  notice — she  was  cruel  as  re 
garded  the  dumb  beast's  fear  in  her  own  agony  and 
terror. 

She  ran  upstairs  to  her  room,  put  on  her  hat  and 
-dcket,  and  went  out.  Stumbling  and  trembling, 
jie  went  along  the  road  until  she  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  the  hill  which  led  straight  down  in  a  gentle 
slope  toward  Grandcourt.  She  was  glad  the  ground 
sloped  downward,  for  it  was  important  that  she 
should  quicken  her  footsteps  in  order  to  see  the 
Squire  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  She  was 
quite  oblivious  of  the  lapse  of  time  since  her  last 
visit,  and  hoped  he  might  still  be  in  the  office.  She 
resolved  to  try  the  office  first.  If  he  were  not  there 
she  would  go  on  to  the  house — find  him  she  must; 
nothing  should  keep  her  from  his  presence  to 
night. 

She  presently  reached  Grandcourt,  entered  the 
grounds  by  a  side  entrance  and  pursued  her  way 
through  the  darkness.  The  sky  overhead  was 
cloudy,  neither  moon  nor  stars  were  visible.  Fal 
tering  and  falling  she  pressed  forward,  and  by  and 
by  reached  the  neighborhood  "of  the  office.  She 
saw  a  light  burning  dimly  behind  the  closed  blinds 
^-her  heart  beat  with  a  sense  of  thankfulness — she 
staggered  up  to  the  door,  brushing  her  dress  against 
the  door  as  she  did  so — she  put  up  her  hand  and 
knocked  feebly.  The  next  instant  the  door  was 
opened  to  her— A  man,  a  total  stranger,  confronted 


DR.  RUMSEY'8  PATIENT.  289 

her,  but  behind  him  she  saw  Awdrey.  She  tottered 
into  the  room. 

The  comparative  light  and  warmth  within,  after 
the  darkness  and  chilly  damp  of  the  spring  even 
ing,  made  her  head  reel,  and  her  eyes  at  first  could 
take  in  no  object  distinctly.  She  was  conscious  of 
uttering  excited  words,  then  she  heard  the  door 
shut  behind  her.  She  looked  round — she  was 
alone  with  the  Squire.  She  staggered  up  to  him, 
and  fell  on  her  knees. 

"You  must  save  me  as  I  saved  you  long  ago,*' 
she  panted. 

"What  is  it?  Get  up.  What  do  you  mean?" 
said  Awdrey. 

"I  mean,  Squire — oh !  I  mean  I  wanted  to  come 
to  you  to-day,  but  Yincent," — her  voice  faltered — 
u  Vincent  were  mad  wi'  jealousy.  He  thought  that 
I  ought  not  to  see  you,  Squire ;  he  had  got  summat 
in  his  brain,  and  it  made  him  mad.  He  thought 
that,  perhaps,  long  ago,  Squire,  I  loved  you — long 
ago.  I'm  not  af eared  to  say  anything  to-night,  the 
trutb  will  out  to-night — I  loved  you  long  ago,  I  love 
you  6 till;  yes,  yes,  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my 
heart.  You  never  cared  nothin'  for  me,  I  know 
that  well.  You  never  did  me  a  wrong  in  thought 
or  in  deed,  I  know  that  well  also;  but  to  me  you 
were  as  a  god,  and  I  loved  you,  I  love  you  still,  and 
Vincent,  my  husband,  he  must  have  seen  it  in  my 
face;  but  you  did  me  no  wrong — never,  in  word  or 
in  deed — only  loved  you — and  I  love  you  still." 

"You  must  be  mad,  girl,"  said  Awdrey.    "Why 


290  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

have  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that?  Get  tip  at 
once;  your  words  and  your  actions  distress  me 
much.  Get  up,  Hetty;  try  to  compose  yourself." 

u  What  I  have  come  to  say  had  best  be  said  kneel 
ing,"  replied  Hetty;  "it  eases  the  awful  pain  iu 
my  side  to  kneel.  Let  me  be,  Squire;  let  me 
Kneel  up  against  your  father's  desk.  Ah!  that's 
better.  It  is  my  heart — I  think  it's  broke ;  anyhow, 
it  beats  awful,  and  the  pain  is  awful." 

"  If  you  have  come  for  any  other  reason  than  to 
say  the  words  you  have  just  said,  say  them  and  go," 
replied  Awdrey. 

Hetty  glanced  up  at  him.  His  face  was  hard, 
she  thought  it  looked  cruel,  she  shivered  from  head 
to  foot.  Was  it  for  this  man  she  had  sacrificed  her 
life?  Then  the  awful  significance  of  her  errand 
came  over  her,  and  she  proceeded  to  speak. 

"Vincent  saw  the  truth  in  my  face,"  she  con 
tinued.  "Anyhow,  he  was  mad  wi'  jealousy,  and 
he  said  that  I  worn't  to  come  and  see  yer.  He 
heard  me  speak  to  yer  last  night,  he  heard  me  say 
it's  a  matter  o'  life  and  death  and  he  wor  mad.  He 
said  I  worn't  to  come;  but  I  wor  mad  too,  mad  to 
come,  and  I  thought  I'd  get  over  him  by  guile.  I 
put  summat  in  his  stout,  and  he"  drank  it — summat, 
I  don't  know  the  name,  but  I  had  took  it  myself 
and  it  always  made  me  a  sight  better,  and  I  gave 
it  to  'im  in  his  stout  and  he  drank  it,  and  then  he 
slept.  He  lay  down  on  the  settle  in  the  kitchen, 
and  he  went  off  into  a  dead  sleep.  When  he  slept 
real  sound  I  stole  away  and  I  come  to  you.  I  saw 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  291 

you  this  evening  and  you  spoke  to  me  and  I  spoke 
to  you,  and  I  begged  of  you  to  keep  our  secret,  and 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would,  and  I  come  away 
feelin'  better.  I  went  back  'ome,  and  the  place 
were  quiet,  and  I  got  into  the  kitchen.  Vincent 
was  lying  on  the  settle  sound  asleep.  I  thought 
nought  o*  his  sleepin',  only  to  be  glad,  for  I  knew 
he'd  never  have  missed  me.  I  made  his  supper  for 
him,  and  built  up  the  fire,  and  I  lit  the  lamps  in 
the  house,  and  I  took  off  my  outdoor  things.  The 
dog  howled,  but  I  didn't  take  no  notice.  Presently 
I  went  up  to  Vincent,  and  I  shook  'im — I  shook  'im 
'ard,  but  he  didn't  wake.  I  took  his  hand  in  mine, 
it  wor  cold  as  ice;  I  listened  for  his  breath,  there 
wor  none.  Squire,"  said  Hetty,  rising  now  to  her 
feet,  "  my  man  wor  dead ;  Squire,  I  have  killed  'im, 
just  the  same  as  you  killed  the  man  on  Salisbury 
Plain  six  years  ago.  My  husband  is  dead,  and  I 
have  killed  him.  Squire,  you  must  save  me  as  I 
saved  you." 

"How?"  asked  Awdrey.  His  voice  had  com 
pletely  altered  now.  In  the  presence  of  the  real 
tragedy  all  the  hardness  had  left  it.  He  sank  into 
a  chair  near  Hetty's  side,  he  even  took  one  of  her 
trembling  hands  in  his. 

"  How  am  I  to  help  you,  you  poor  soul?"  he  said 
again. 

*  You  must  prove  an  alibi — that' s  the  word.  You 
must  say  'Hetty  wor  wi'  me,  she  couldn't  have 
killed  her  man,'  you  must  say  that;  you  must  tell 
all  the  world  that  you  and  me  was  together  hero," 


293  DR.  RUMSET'S  PATIENT. 

Til  do  better  than  that,"  said  Awdrey  suddenly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Hetty  started  back  and 
gazed  at  him  with  a  queer  mixture  of  hope  and 
terror  in  her  face.  "Better — but  there  ain't  no 
better,"  she  cried.  wEf  you  don't  tell  the  simple 
truth  I'll  be  hanged;  hanged  by  the  neck  until  I 
die — I,  who  saved  you  at  the  risk  of  my  own  soul 
nearly  six  years  gone." 

Til  not  let  you  be  hanged,**  said  Awdrey,  ris 
ing.  *  Get  up,  Hetty ;  do  not  kneel  to  me.  You 
don't  quite  know  what  you  have  done  for  me  to 
night.  Sit  on  that  chair — compose  yourself — try 
to  be  calm.  Hetty,  you  just  came  in  the  nick  of 
time.  God  and  the  devil  were  fighting  for  my  soul. 
In  spite  of  all  the  devil's  efforts  God  was  getting 
the  better  of  it,  and  I — I  didn't  want  him  to  get  the 
best.  I  wanted  the  devil  to  help  me,  and,  Hetty, 
I  even  prayed  to  him  that  he  might  come  and  help 
me.  When  I  saw  you  coming  into  the  room  I 
thought  at  first  that  my  prayer  was  answered.  I 
seemed  to  see  the  devil  on  your  face.  Now  I  see 
differently — your  presence  has  lifted  a  great  cloud 
from  before  my  mind — I  see  distinctly,  almost  as 
distinctly  as  if  I  were  in  hell  itself,  the  awful  con 
sequences  which  must  arise -from  wrong-doing. 
Hetty,  I  have  made  up  my  mind;  you,  of  all  peo 
ple,  have  been  the  most  powerful  advocate  on  the 
side  of  God  to-night.  We  will  both  do  the  right, 
child — we  will  confess  the  simple  truth." 

"No,  Squire,  no;  they'll  kill  me,  they*!!  kill  me, 
if  you  don't  help  me  in  the  only  way  you  can  help 


DR.  RUMSEriS  PATIENT.  293 

me — you  are  stronger  than  me,  Squire — don't  lead 
me  to  my  death." 

"They  won't  kill  you,  but  you  must  tell  the 
whole  truth  as  I  will  tell  the  truth.  It  can  be 
proved  that  you  gave  the  poison  to  your  husband 
with  no  intent  to  kill — that  matter  can  be  arranged 
promptly.  Come  with  me,  Hetty,  now — let  us 
come  together.  If  you  falter  I'll  strengthen  you; 
if  I  falter  you'll  strengthen  me.  We  will  go 
together  at  once  and  tell — tell  what  you  saw  and 
what  I  did  nearly  six  years  ago." 

"What  you  did  on  Salisbury  Plain?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  the  time  I  killed  that  man." 

"Never,  never,"  she  answered;  she  fell  flat  on 
her  face  on  the  floor. 

Awdrey  went  to  her  and  tried  to  raise  her  up. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "I  have  looked  into  the  very 
heart  of  evil,  and  I  cannot  go  on  with  it — whatever 
the  consequence  we  must  both  tell  the  truth — and 
we  will  do  it  together;  come  at  once." 

"You  don't  know  what  will  happen  to  you,"  said 
Hetty.  She  shivered  as  she  lay  prone  before 
him. 

"No  matter — nothing  could  happen  so  bad  as 
shutting  away  the  face  of  God.  I'll  tell  all,  and 
you  must  tell  all.  No  more  lies  for  either  of  us. 
We  will  save  our  souls  even  if  our  bodies  die." 

"The  pain — the  pain  in  my  side,"  moaned 
Hetty. 

"It  will  be  better  after  we  have  gone  through 
what  is  before  us.  Come,  I'll  take  your  hand." 


204  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

She  gave  it  timidly ;  the  Squire's  fingers  closed 
over  it. 

"  Where  are  we  to  go?"  she  asked.  "  Where  are 
you  taking  me?" 

u  Come  with  me.  I'll  speak.  Presently  it  will 
be  your  turn — after  they  know  all,  all  the  worst,  it 
will  be  your  turn  to  speak." 

"  Who  are  to  know  all,  Squire?" 

"My  wife,  my  sisters,  Mrs.  Everett,  my  friends." 

"  Oh,  God,  God,  why  was  I  ever  born !"  moaned 
Hetty. 

"You'll  feel  better  afterward,"  said  Awdrey. 
*  Try  and  remember  that  in  the  awful  struggle  and 
ordeal  of  the  next  few  minutes  your  soul  and  mine 
will  be  born  again — they  will  be  saved — saved  from 
the  power  of  evil.  Be  brave,  Hetty.  You  told  me 
to-night  that  you  loved  me — prove  the  greatness  of 
your  love  by  helping  me  to  save  my  own  soul  and 
yours." 

"I  wonder  if  this  is  true,"  said  Hetty.  "You 
seem  to  lift  me  out  of  myself."  She  spoke  in  a 
sort  of  dull  wonder. 

"It  is  true — it  is  right — it  is  the  only  thing; 
come  at  once." 

She  did  not  say  any  more,  "nor  make  the  least  re 
sistance.  They  left  the  office  together.  They  trod 
softly  on  the  gravel  path  which  led  to  the  main 
entrance  of  the  old  house.  They  both  entered  the 
hall  side  by  side.  Hetty  looked  pale  and  untidy ; 
her  hair  fell  partly  down  her  back ;  there  were  un- 
dried  tears  on  her  cheeks ;  her  eyes  had  a  wild  aod 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  205 

startled  gleam  in  them ;  the  Squire  was  also  deadly 
pale,  but  he  was  quiet  and  composed.  The  fierce 
struggle  which  had  nearly  rent  his  soul  in  two  was 
completely  over  at  that  moment.  In  the  calm  there 
was  also  peace,  and  the  peace  had  settled  on  his 
face. 

Mrs.  Henessey  was  standing  in  the  wide  entrance 
hall.  She  started  when  she  saw  her  brother;  then 
she  glanced  at  Hetty,  then  she  looked  again  at  the 
Squire. 

"Why,  Robert!"  she  said,  "Robert!" 

There  was  an  expression  about  Hetty's  face  and 
about  Awdrey's  face  which  silenced  and  frightened 
her. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,,  a  what  is 
wrong?" 

"Where  are  the  others?"  asked  the  Squire.  "I 
want  to  see  them  all  immediately." 

"  They  are  in  the  front  drawing-room — Margaret, 
Dr.  Rumsey,  Dorothy,  my  husband  and  Dorothy's, 
and  Margaret's  uncle,  Mr.  Cuthbert." 

"  I  am  glad  he  is  there ;  we  shall  want  a  magis 
trate,"  said  Awdrey. 

"  A  magistrate !    What  is  the  matter?" 

"  You  will  know  in  a  moment,  Anne.  Did  you 
say  Rumsey  was  in  the  drawing-room?" 

"  Yes ;  they  are  all  there.  Margaret  is  playing 
the  "Moonlight  Sonata" — you  hear  it,  don't  you 
through  the  closed  doors — she  played  so  mourn 
fully  that  I  ran  away — I  hate  music  that  affects  me 
to  tears." 


296  DR.  RUMSJBY'8  PATIENT. 

Awdrey  bent  down  and  said  a  word  to  Hetty 
then  he  looked  at  his  sister. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  drawing-room,  and  Hetty 
Vincent  will  come  with  me,"  he  said. 

"I  used  to  know  you  as  Hetty  Armitage,**  said 
Anne.  "How  are  you,  Hetty?" 

"  She  is  not  well,"  answered  Awdrey  for  her,  "  but 
she  will  tell  you  presently.  Come  into  the  draw 
ing-room,  too,  Anne;  I  should  like  you  to  be 
present." 

"I  cannot  understand  this,"  said  Anne.  She  ran 
on  first  and  opened  the  great  folding-doors — she 
entered  the  big  room,  her  face  ablaze  with  excite 
ment  and  wonder — behind  her  came  Awdrey  hold 
ing  Hetty's  hand.  There  was  an  expression  on  the 
Squire's  face  which  arrested  the  attention  of  every 
one  present.  Mr.  Cuthbert,  who  had  not  seen  him 
since  his  return  home,  rose  eagerly  from  the  deep 
arm-chair  into  which  he  had  sunk,  intending  to  give 
him  a  hearty  welcome,  but  when  he  had  advanced 
in  the  Squire's  direction  a  step  or  two,  he  paused 
— he  seemed  to  see  by  a  sort  of  intuition  that  the 
moment  for  ordinary  civilities  was  not  then.  Mar 
garet  left  her  seat  by  the  piano  and  came  almost 
into  the  centre  of  the  room.  Her  husband's  eyes 
seemed  to  motion  her  back — her  uncle  went  up  to 
her  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder;  he  did  not 
know  what  he  expected,  nor  did  Margaret,  but  each 
one  in  the  room  felt  with  an  electric  thrill  of  sym 
pathy  that  a  revelation  of  no  ordinary  nature  was 
about  to  be  made. 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  29* 

Still  holding  Hetty's  hand,  Awdrey  came  into 
the  great  space  in  front  of  the  fireplace ;  he  was 
about  to  speak  when  Bumsey  came  suddenly  for 
ward. 

"  One  moment,"  he  said.  "  This  young  woman 
is  very  ill;  will  some  one  fetch  brandy?"  He  took 
Hetty's  slight  wrist  between  his  finger  and  thumb, 
and  felt  the  fluttering  pulse. 

Anne  rushed  away  to  get  the  brandy.  The  doc 
tor  mixed  a  small  dose,  and  made  Hetty  swallow 
it.  The  stimulant  brought  back  a  faint  color  to 
her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  looked  less  dull  and  dazed. 

"  I  have  come  into  this  room  to-night  with  Hetty 
Vincent,  who  used  to  be  Hetty  Armitage,  to  make 
a  very  remarkable  statement,"  said  Awdrey. 

Bumsey  backed  a  few  steps.  He  thought  to  him 
self  :  "  We  shall  get  now  to  the  mystery.  He  has 
made  up  his  mind  on  the  side  of  the  good — brave 
fellow!  What  can  all  this  mean?  What  is  the 
matter  with  that  pretty  girl?  She  looks  as  if  she 
were  dying.  What  can  be  the  connection  between 
them?" 

*What  can  be  the  connection  between  them?" 
was  also  the  thought  running  in  the  minds  of  every 
other  spectator.  Margaret  shared  it,  as  her  uncle's 
hand  rested  a  little  heavier  moment  by  moment  on 
her  slight  shoulder.  Squire  Cuthbert  was  swear 
ing  heavily  under  his  breath.  The  sisters  and  their 
husbands  stood  in  the  background,  prepared  for 
any  "denouement" — all  was  quietness  and  expec 
tancy.  Mrs.  Everett,  who  up  to  the  present  instant 


298  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

had  taken  no  part  in  the  extraordinary  scene,  hur 
ried  now  to  the  front. 

"Squire,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say,  but  I  can  guess.  In  advance,  how 
ever,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart;  a  premonition 
seizes  me  that  the  moment  of  my  son's  release  is 
at  hand.  You  have  got  this  young  woman  to  reveal 
her  secret?" 

"Her  secret  is  mine,**  said  Awdrey. 

Squire  Cuthbert  swore  aloud. 

*  Just  wait  one  moment  before  you  say  anything," 
said  Awdrey,  fixing  his  eyes  on  him.  "The  thing 
is  not  what  you  imagine.  I  can  tell  the  truth  in 
half-a-dozen  words.  Mrs.  Everett,  you  are  right — 
you  see  the  man  before  you  who  killed  Horace 
Frere  on  Salisbury  Plain.  Tour  son  is  innocent." 

"My  God!    You  did  this?"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 

"  Robert,  what  are  you  saying?"  cried  Margaret. 

"  Robert  I"  echoed  Anne. 

"Dear  brother,  you  must  be  mad!"  exclaimed 
Dorothy. 

"  No,  I  am  sane — I  am  sure  I  was  mad  for  a  time, 
but  now  I  am  quite  sane  to-night.  I  killed  Horace 
Frere  on  Salisbury  Plain.  Hetty  Vincent  saw  the 
murder  committed;  she  hid  her  knowledge  for  my 
sake.  Immediately  after  I  committed  the  deed  the 
doom  of  my  house  fell  upon  me,  and  I  forgot  what 
I  myself  had  done.  For  five  years  I  had  no  memory 
of  my  own  act.  Rumsey,  when  I  saw  my  face  re 
flected  in  the  pond,  six  months  ago,  the  knowledge 
of  the  truth  returned  to  me.  I  remembered  what 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  290 

I  had  done.  I  remembered,  and  I  was  not  sorry, 
and  I  resolved  to  hide  the  truth  to  the  death ;  my 
conscience,  the  thing  which  makes  the  difference 
between  man  and  beast,  never  awoke  within  me — I 
was  happy  and  I  kept  well.  But  yesterday — yes 
terday  when  I  came  home  and  saw  my  people  and 
saw  Hetty  here,  and  noticed  the  look  of  suffering 
on  your  face,  Mrs.  Everett,  the  voice  of  God  began 
to  make  itself  heard.  From  that  moment  until  now 
my  soul  and  the  powers  of  evil  have  been  fighting 
against  the  powers  of  good.  I  was  coward  enough 
to  think  that  I  might  hide  the  truth  and  suffer,  and 
live  the  life  of  a  hypocrite."  The  Squire's  voice, 
which  had  been  quite  quiet  and  composed,  faltered 
now  for  the  first  time.  "It  could  not  be  done,"  he 
added.  "I  found  I  could  not  close  with  the 
devil." 

At  this  moment  a  strange  thing  happened.  Aw- 
drey's  wife  rushed  up  to  him,  she  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"  Thank  God !"  she  murmured.  u  Nothing  mat 
ters,  for  you  have  saved  your  soul  alive." 

Awdrey  pushed  back  his  wife's  hair,  and  kissed 
her  on  her  forehead. 

"  But  this  is  a  most  remarkable  thing,"  said  Mr. 
Cuthbert,  finding  his  tongue,  and  coming  forward. 
"You,  Awdrey — you,  my  niece's  husband,  come 
quietly  into  this  room  and  tell  us  with  the  utmost 
coolness  that  you  are  a  murderer.  I  cannot  believe 
it — you  must  be  mad." 

"No,  I  am  perfectly  sane.    Hetty  Yincent  can 


300  J)R.  RUMSET'S  PATIENT. 

prove  the  truth  of  my  words.  I  am  a  murderer, 
but  not  by  intent.  I  never  meant  to  kill  Frero; 
nevertheless,  I  am  a  murderer,  for  I  have  taken  a 
man's  life." 

"  You  tell  me  this  ?"  said  Squire  Cuthbert.  *  You 
tell  me  that  you  have  suffered  another  man  to  suffer 
in  your  stead  for  close  on  six  years." 

"Unknowingly,  Squire  Cuthbert.  There  was  a 
blank  over  my  memory." 

"I  can  testify  to  that,"  said  Rumsey,  now  coming 
forward.  "The  whole  story  is  so  astounding,  so 
unprecedented,  that  I  am  not  the  least  surprised  at 
your  all  being  unable  to  make  a  just  estimate  of  the 
true  circumstances  at  the  present  moment.  Never 
theless,  Awdrey  tells  the  simple  truth.  I  have 
watched  him  as  my  patient  for  years.  I  have  given 
his  case  my  greatest  attention.  I  consider  it  one 
of  the  most  curious  psychological  studies  which 
has  occurred  in  the  whole  of  my  wide  experience. 
Awdrey  killed  Horace  Frere,  and  forgot  all  about 
it.  The  deed  was  doubtless  done  in  a  moment  of 
strong  irritation." 

tt  He  was  provoked  to  it,"  said  Hetty,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

u  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  put  all  that  down 
in  writing,"  said  Rumsey,  giving  her  a  quick 
glance.  "  Squire,  I  begin  to  see  a  ghost  of  day 
light.  It  is  possible  that  you  may  be  saved  from 
the  serious  consequences  of  your  own  act,  if  it  can 
be  proved  before  a  jury  that  you  committed  the 
terrible  deed  as  a  means  of  self-protection." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

*  It  was  for  that, "  said  Hetty  again.  "  I  can  teU 
exactly  what  I  saw." 

The  excited  people  who  were  listening  to  this 
narrative  now  began  to  move  about  and  talk  eager 
ly  and  rapidly.  Eumsey  alone  altogether  kept  his 
head.  He  saw  how  ill  Hetty  was,  and  how  all-im 
portant  her  story  would  be  if  there  was  any  chance 
of  saving  Awdrey.  It  must  be  put  in  writing  with 
out  delay. 

"Come  and  sit  here,"  he  said,  taking  the  girl's 
hand  and  leading  her  to  a  chair.  All  the  others 
shrank  away  from  her,  but  Mrs.  Everett,  whose 
eyes  were  blazing  with  a  curious  combination  of 
passionate  anger  and  wild,  exultant  joy,  came  close 
up  to  her  for  a  moment. 

"Little  hypocrite — little  spy!"  she  hissed. 
Don't  forget  that  you  have  committed  perjury. 
Your  sentence  will  be  a  severe  one." 

"Hush,"  said  Rumsey,  "is  this  a  moment — ?" 
A  look  in  his  eyes  silenced  the  widow — she  shrank 
away  near  one  of  the  windows  to  relieve  her  over 
charged  feelings  in  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Sit  here  and  tell  me  exactly  what  you  saw," 
said  Eumsey  to  Hetty.  "Mr.  Cuthbert,  you  are 
doubtless  a  magistrate?" 

"  Bless  my  stars,  I  don't  know  what  I  am  at  the 
present  moment,"  said  the  worthy  Squire,  mopping 
his  crimson  brow. 

"  Try  to  retain  your  self-control — remember  how 
much  hangs  on  it.  This  young  woman  is  very  ill 
—it  will  be  all  important  that  we  get  her  deposition 


302  DR.  HUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

before "    Rumsey  paused;  Hetty's  eyes  were 

fixed  on  his  face,  her  lips  moved  faintly. 

"  You  may  save  the  Squire  after  all  if  you  tell 
the  simple  truth,"  said  Rumsey  kindly,  bending 
toward  her  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice.  "  Try  and 
tell  the  simple  truth.  I  know  you  are  feeling  ill, 
but  you  will  be  better  afterward.  Will  you  tell  me 
exactly  what  happened?  I  shall  put  it  down  in 
writing.  You  will  then  sign  your  own  deposition." 

"I'll  tell  the  truth,"  said  Hetty— "is  it  the  case 
that  if  I  tell  just  the  truth  I  may  save  Squire?" 

"It  is  his  only  chance.     Now  begin." 

The  others  crowded  round  when  Hetty  began  to 
speak;  all  but  Mrs.  Everett,  who  still  sat  in  the 
window,  her  face  buried  in  her  handkerchief. 

Hetty  began  her  tale  falteringly,  often  trembling 
and  often  pausing,  but  Rumsey  managed  to  keep 
her  to  the  point.  By  and  by  the  whole  queer  story 
was  taken  down  and  was  then  formally  signed  and 
sworn  to.  Rumsey  finally  folded  up  the  paper  and 
gave  it  to  Squire  Cuthbert  to  keep. 

"  I  have  a  strong  hope  that  we  may  clear  Awdrey , " 
he  said.  a  The  case  is  a  clear  one  of  manslaughter 
which  took  place  in  self-defence.  Mrs.  Vincent's 
deposition  is  most  important,  for  it  not  only  shows 
that  Awdrey  committed  the  unfortunate  deed  under 
the  strongest  provocation,  but  explains  exactly  why 
Frere  should  have  had  such  animosity  to  the  Squire. 
Now,  Mrs.  Vincent,  you  have  rendered  a  very  valu 
able  service,  and  as  you  are  ill  we  cannot  expect 
you  to  do  anything  further  to-night." 


DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT.  303 

Here  Rumsey  looked  full  at  Margaret. 

"I  think  this  young  woman  far  too  unwell  to 
leave  the  house,"  he  said — "can  you  have  a  room 
prepared  for  her  here?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Margaret;  she  went  up  to 
Hetty  and  laid  one  of  her  hands  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Before  Hetty  leaves  the  room,  there  is  some 
thing  to  be  said  on  her  own  account,"  said  the 
Squire. 

He  then  related  in  a  few  words  the  tragedy  which 
had  taken  place  at  the  Gable  Farm.  While  he  was 
speaking,  Hetty  suddenly  staggered  to  her  feet  and 
faced  them. 

"If  what  I  have  told  to-night  will  really  save 
you,  Squire,  then  nothing  else  matters,"  she  said; 
"I'm  not  af eared  now,  for  ef  I  'ave  saved  you  at 
last,  nothing  matters," — her  face  grew  ghastly 
white,  she  tumbled  in  a  heap  to  the  floor. 

The  doctor,  Margaret,  and  the  Squire  rushej  to 
her  assistance,  but  when  they  raised  her  up  she 
was  dead. 

"Heart  disease,"  said  Kumsey,  afterward,  "ac 
celerated  by  shock." 

•  •••••• 

A  few  more  words  can  finish  this  strange  story. 
At  the  Squire's  own  request,  Mr.  Cuthbert  took 
the  necessary  steps  for  his  arrest,  and  Buuusey 
hurried  to  town  to  get  the  interference  of  the  Home 
Secretary  in  the  case  of  Everett,  who  was  suffering 
for  Awdrey's  supposed  crime  in  Portland  prison. 
The  doctor  had  a  long  interview  with  one  of  tb« 


304  DR.  RUMSEY'S  PATIENT. 

officials  at  the  Home  Office,  and  disclosed  all  tha 
queer  circumstances  of  the  case.  Everett,  accord 
ing  to  the  Queen's  Prerogative,  received  in  due 
course  a  free  pardon  for  the  crime  he  had  never 
committed,  and  was  restored  to  his  mother  and  his 
friends  once  again. 

Awdrey's  trial  took  place  almost  immediately 
afterward  at  Salisbury.  The  trial  was  never  for 
gotten  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  was  the  one 
topic  of  conversation  for  several  days  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  England.  So  remarkable  and 
strange  a  case  had  never  before  been  propounded 
for  the  benefit  of  the  jury,  but  it  was  evident  that 
the  very  learned  Judge  who  conducted  the  trial  was 
from  the  first  on  the  side  of  the  prisoner. 

Hetty's  all-important  deposition  made  a  great 
sensation;  her  evidence  was  corroborated  by  Mrs. 
Armitage,  and  when  Kumsey  appeared  as  a  witness 
he  abundantly  proved  that  Awdrey  had  completely 
forgotten  the  deed  of  which  he  had  been  guilty. 
His  thrilling  description  of  his  patient's  strange 
case  was  listened  to  with  breathless  attention  by  a 
crowded  court.  The  trial  lasted  for  two  days,  dur 
ing  which  the  anxiety  of  all  Awdrey's  friends  can 
be  better  imagined  than  described.  At  the  end  of 
the  trial,  the  Jury  returned  a  verdict  of  "Not 
Guilty.**  In  short,  his  strange  case  had  been 
abundantly  proved :  he  had  done  what  he  did  with 
out  intent  to  kill  and  simply  as  a  means  of  self- 
defence. 

Qn  the  evening  of  his  return  to  Grandcourt,  he 


DR.  RUMSEY'8  PATIENT.  305 

and  Margaret  stood  in  the  porch  together  side  by 
side.  It  was  a  moonlight  night,  and  the  whole 
beautiful  place  was  brightly  illuminated. 

"  Robert,"  said  the  wife,  "  you  have  lived 
through  it  all — you  will  now  take  a  fresh  lease  of 
life." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  true  that  I  have  gone  through  the  fire  and 
been  saved,"  he  said,  "  but  there  is  a  shadow  over 
toe — I  can  never  be  the  man  I  might  have  been." 

"  You  can  be  a  thousand  times  better,"  she  re 
plied  with  flashing  eyes,  "  for  you  have  learned  now 
the  bitter  and  awful  lesson  of  how  a  man  may  fall, 
rise  again,  and  in  the  end  conquer." 


[THE  END. 


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